


Eyes on a Moon of Blindness

by EAWeek



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Underworld (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Timelines, Crossover, F/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3850093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAWeek/pseuds/EAWeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tenth Doctor is caught up in a deadly war between vampires and werewolves.  Crossover with the movie Underworld.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes on a Moon of Blindness

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my New Who fanfics, originally posted at fanfiction.net. I've edited/ reformatted and am cross-posting here.

Title: **Eyes on a Moon of Blindness**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com; also on Live Journal as eaweek.

Summary: The Tenth Doctor is caught up in a deadly war between vampires and werewolves.

Category: _Doctor Who_ ; mystery/ romance/ supernatural. Crossover with the movie _Underworld_.

Distribution: Feel free to link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Comments are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, shoot me an email or a PM and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest! Special credit goes to Brian Cox, whose _Underworld_ novelizations have provided invaluable background material.

Possible spoilers: This story is an alternate timeline. Nothing is really spoiled, unless you haven’t seen the second season of _Doctor Who_ (new series).

Credit where credit is due: The story title and all chapter titles are shamelessly stolen from U2.

Rating: This story is rated “M” (R in movie terms) for sexuality, creature violence, and profanity.

 

Prologue: _Where the Streets Have No Name_

He kept hoping that the ship would take him somewhere interesting or dangerous but it kept transporting him to one benign location after another: a spaceport, an agricultural center, an empty tundra. He itched for excitement: a war, a crisis, a conflict, anything. At this point, he would have settled for a pair of primary school students pelting each other with spitballs. When the ancient time and space machine ground and shuddered to a halt, he crossed his fingers, hoping that this time, he’d strike gold. Or at least good-quality nickel.

The rain hit him like a bad practical joke, soaking him almost the minute he stepped outside the ship into the alleyway where the vessel had materialized. He stood sputtering indignantly, then hopped back inside, staring out through the open doorway into the rainy night. For a moment, he debated leaving. Then he looked up, studying the shapes of the buildings, the unmistakably Baroque architecture. _Interesting_. He grabbed a large black umbrella off the coat rack and ventured out into the gloom, pulling the ship’s door shut behind him.

He soon realized he might as well have not bothered with the brolly. Water lay in vast puddles across the city square, soaking through his trainers and turning his trouser legs into wet flaps of fabric that stuck uncomfortably to his legs. Still, he scanned the faces of the people hurrying around him, all bundled into raincoats and trying to ward off the deluge with umbrellas. The stately Baroque buildings stood side-by-side with more modern constructions, and his gaze took in the glowing lights of restaurants and shops and internet cafés.

He dodged into the nearest coffee shop, picking up a discarded newspaper. “Budapest,” he said out loud to himself. Early twenty-first century Earth, a time and place he’d been consciously avoiding for a while now. He tossed down the paper, sloshing back outside. Thunder rumbled over distant mountains, and lightning streaked blue-white through the heavens. He sensed the nearly full moon behind the heavy, dark clouds overhead.

An enormous dark-skinned man shoved past him, so rudely and powerfully that he very nearly fell into a nearby puddle. Before he could so much as mouth a protest, the man was gone.

Angrily, he took off at a fast clip, slogging through the water until he caught sight of the black man again. The chap was difficult to miss, even in the rain and darkness: well over six feet tall, with the vast shoulders of a professional athlete. Lamplight gleamed on his bald head. He hadn’t bothered with any kind of protective outerwear, and he strode forward with single-minded absorption, pushing people out of his way.

A smaller Caucasian bobbed alongside him, his head barely touching the bigger man’s shoulder. Despite the Mutt-and-Jeff difference in their physical appearance, they plainly were working together as a team, and the synchrony in their movements spoke of a long-standing partnership. _They’re after something_.

Curiosity spurred him on. The two disreputable characters were heading for the entrance of a nearby metro station. He followed, hurrying down the steps, always keeping a distance of at least twelve feet behind his quarry. Once inside the station, he furled the big umbrella and casually used his sonic screwdriver to get through the turnstiles.

A train sat at the platform, a crush of people entering and exiting through its open doors. He spotted the two men: they’d split up and were stalking among the passengers like predatory animals on the hunt. The Doctor stayed parallel with the big man, walking casually through the station, as if heading for a news kiosk. For the first time in ages, he felt the familiar adrenaline pulse of trouble.

Then the big man bellowed “ _BLOOOOOODS!_ ” and the station exploded in a storm of gunfire.

I. _Zoo Station_

Rain. All day it had been falling, and by the time Michael Corvin left for work, gray sheets were still pouring down from the sky, bringing an early twilight to the city. Thunder rumbled and lightning flickered in the clouds overhead, imparting a metallic sheen to the Budapest cityscape. Michael reached the sidewalk before he realized he’d left his umbrella in the apartment. Unwilling to wait for the infernally slow lift or trudge back up five flights of stairs to his tiny flat, he’d ventured out into the monsoon with only his rain slicker to protect him from the elements.

Now he cursed that rash decision: he was soaked to the skin, water sloshing around inside his sneakers and plastering his hair to his skull. He hurried among the crowds of workers, students, and tourists heading for the Ferenciek Square station. The world seemed to have become wholly aqueous: ankle-deep puddles stretched across the pavement, and torrents gushed from the yawning mouths of gargoyles. Once or twice he glanced back, feeling a strange sensation on his neck—almost as though he were being watched or followed. _Crazy_ , he told himself. Who the hell would be following an anonymous American medical intern? _Especially on a night like this_. Still, he couldn’t help a sense of relief when the metro station appeared ahead. Dodging the trenchcoat-clad, umbrella-toting Hungarians, he fairly ran down the stairs and into the blessedly rain-free underground.

Crowds milled about on the platform: day workers going home for the night, night workers like Michael heading out for evening shifts, students traveling to and from classes, tourists in search of restaurants and night life. Everyone looked damp, but underneath the discomfort, Michael sensed a kind of humorous resignation. _What else are you going to do?_ he thought, shaking water off his clothes. _You almost have to laugh_.

He felt wind stir on his cheek and heard the mechanical steel rumble of an approaching M3 train. While he waited for its arrival, his gaze fell for a moment on a striking young woman decked out in top-to-toe black leather, a long trenchcoat over a catsuit and boots. _Wow_. He couldn’t help staring. Michael had never found Goth fashion particularly attractive, but he had to admit, this woman had the perfect look for it: a svelte, athletic build, curving in all the right places, and pale, luminous skin. For a moment their eyes met. Hers were hazel, an astonishing mix of green and gold. Black hair, parted simply on one side, fell to her shoulders. For a long, wordless moment they stared at each other. Then the woman broke off the eye contact, turning away slightly and stepping behind a pillar. The train pulled into the station, and Michael trudged toward the nearest door, reluctantly.

Passengers entered and exited the train. Michael stood waiting, gazing out the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of the mystery woman, but she seemed to have vanished. He fidgeted in his wet gear, waiting for the ping that would announce the doors closing.

And then the world went crazy.

A deep _basso profundo_ male voice bellowed something that sounded to Michael’s ears like “ _BLOOOOODS!_ ” An instant later came the concussive _crack_ of gunfire. Instinct propelled Michael to the floor of the train, away from the doorway, huddling against the row of seats. Other passengers had done likewise, hunkering down in the corners. Outside, the firestorm continued: continuous explosions that sounded like machine guns, interspersed with the rapid bangs of other weapons. Michael’s ears rang painfully from the din. His heart pounded, adrenaline pouring through his system. _What the fuck?_ he thought wildly. His mind worked on overdrive, trying to make sense of the mayhem: a terrorist attack, mob violence, a drug deal gone horribly wrong?

The windows of the trains exploded inward, shattering glass everywhere. Passengers covered their heads, protecting their eyes. Over the gunfire, Michael could hear people on the platform screaming and a voice yelling in Hungarian for people to _get down_.

From his angle on the floor, he caught odd glimpses of the combatants: fast-moving figures in dark clothes, brandishing all manner of deadly weapons. _Jesus Christ!_ The nondescript metro station had become a war zone. Michael could see sparks of what looked like weird blue glowing lights. Some freaky kind of cop-killer ammunition? For the barest moment, there was a pause in the racket. Michael dared to peer around the corner, staring out at the platform.

A bullet struck a young woman trying to take cover behind a pillar, and the impact threw her backwards, crying out in pain. A pair of thugs bolted into the train, barely feet from Michael, and he leaped away to avoid them. They raced down the car, and Michael, seeing his chance, flung himself to his belly and slid across the platform, heedless of the broken glass beneath him. He reached the wounded young woman, dragging her into the nearest corner, near a news kiosk.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you!” he gasped, hoping she spoke English: at the moment, every word of Hungarian he knew had completely abandoned him. He opened the top of her shirt, applying pressure to the gaping wound in her shoulder. The bullet had passed right through the soft tissue, and she was bleeding from both the entrance and exit wounds. Michael could only pray that someone had called for the police and ambulances. Around him, the fighting had resumed with the same deadly intensity; Michael kept his head down, holding his torso low across the injured woman, hoping he wouldn’t be killed before help could arrive.

Powerful hands grabbed his shoulders and began yanking him backwards. “No!” Michael yelled. _What the hell?_ Were they taking hostages? If he couldn’t tend her, the injured woman would die!

Gunfire exploded practically in his face, bullets flying past overhead, and Michael’s would-be kidnapper cried out, releasing his grip and falling back. To his vast shock, the Goth woman strode toward him, a semiautomatic in each hand, firing both weapons simultaneously, hellfire and murder blazing out of her face. _Jesus, **she’s** part of this?_ Michael flung himself forward, onto the wounded commuter, and the Goth woman raced past him, her footsteps crunching rapidly away over the broken glass. He turned his attention to the bleeding young woman, again putting pressure on both sides of her shoulder. A few gunshots echoed hollowly in the distance. And then silence. Michael noted with alarm that the young woman was pale and shivering, shock setting in.

“Come on, stay with me!” he pleaded. _I won’t let her die_ , he thought wildly. _Not this one. Not again_.

Around him the survivors had begun dazedly to move, some of them moaning and crying, but most too numb to speak or even move. A dim corner of Michael’s mind registered crunching footsteps and a male voice calling in Hungarian: _is anyone hurt?_ Then someone hunkered down beside him.

“How bad is it?” It was the same voice, speaking English now.

“Bad,” said Michael. “She needs help.” He kept both hands on her shoulder, applying steady pressure.

“The police and medics are on their way. Someone outside must’ve called.” Meaningless gibber. Very faintly now, Michael could hear the sound of sirens, like a far-away symphony of hope. The man beside Michael straightened up and wandered away, absently picking up things off the platform. Michael barely paid him any notice.

The first cops and medics arrived. Michael recognized one of the EMTs and yelled to catch his attention. “Bullet wound to the shoulder!” he called. “It’s critical!” The medics swooped in, and Michael stood, aware of every muscle in his body aching, stretched taut from the ordeal. His hands were red with the woman’s blood, and he wiped them on his wet trousers. But at least help had arrived.

For a moment, he stared around the platform. The metro station had been thoroughly trashed: lights broken, shattered glass and tile everywhere, the walls pockmarked from the fusillade of bullets. The driver of the M3 train was talking to police officers. Medics attended to other wounded commuters. Conversations hummed in quiet Hungarian. _The aftermath of war_.

Something odd caught Michael’s eye, and he trotted over to investigate. His eyes went wide: on the platform lay a skeletal corpse, charred and still smoking. A smell like burnt meat hung in the air, nauseating Michael, despite his doctor’s strong stomach. The man looked like he’d been burned alive. On the floor beside him, near his blackened hand, lay a wicked-looking gun. But those things made less of an impression on Michael than the corpse’s skull. The facial flesh had mostly burned away, shrinking and contracting as if under the force of some intense, searing heat, leaving the teeth completely exposed. They were white teeth, perfect and even, the canines strangely elongated.

 _Almost looks like…._ Impatiently, he pushed the thought away.

The body had also caught the attention of a tall man in a brown coat: he leaned over the skull, running a finger down the length of one canine, tapping the tooth gently with his fingernail.

“Are those real?” Michael found himself asking, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “Are they prosthetic?”

“No,” the man responded, seemingly more to himself than to Michael. “No, they’re bone.” He straightened up, wandering into the now-empty M3 train. On the opposite side of the car, someone had forced open the sliding doors, exposing the black wall of the subway tunnel. The man in the brown coat paused and peered out through the open doors. Then, with a quick, casual glance over one shoulder, he hopped lightly down onto the train tracks.

The medics were calling to Michael, and he turned his attention back to the injured woman: she’d been loaded into a stretcher, and they were carrying her out. Everything else forgotten, Michael hurried alongside her; he could hitch a lift to the hospital in the ambulance.

(ii)

“Going home?”

Michael turned to face Adam Lockwood, another American medical intern, and the closest thing Michael had to a friend.

“Yeah… Nicholas let me have a few hours.” He’d already changed out of his scrubs and back into his still-damp bloodstained clothes. After the shootout, he’d passed a grueling nine hours in the Karolyi Hospital’s casualty ward, and now he was so tired his head was growing fuzzy and numb around the edges.

“He said you did terrific work with that girl.”

Michael could barely muster a smile. “Thanks.”

Adam asked, “Hey, did you hear about the guy that just wandered in? Like five minutes ago.”

“What about him?”

“He came in off the street, mumbling something about how some crazy people kidnapped him and experimented on him. They’re treating him in casualty now for blood loss and shock.”

“It’ll be a different story when he sobers up.” _That’s a new one_ , Michael thought. _I guess alien abduction is getting a little old_. He shut the locker with a metallic clang and trudged out into the corridor. Exhausted as he was, he wanted to take one last look at his patient. A few moments later, he stood in the ICU, watching the young Hungarian woman sleep. Through the glass window, he could see that her vital signs were stable; IV lines dripped blood and fluids down into her arms.

“She’s all right, then?”

“Yeah,” said Michael absently, turning around.

“Here. You must be hungry.” The man held out a paper bag and a paper cup with a small ticket hanging down its side: tea. Michael peeled the lid back and took a few sips. He normally never drank tea, and its pungent taste surprised him. He felt better immediately and wondered why he didn’t drink it more often. Aware of sudden, ravenous hunger, he unwrapped the sandwich and tore into it: rye bread and some kind of meat, which he swallowed without tasting.

“Thanks,” he mumbled gratefully, strolling out of the ICU. “You didn’t have to do this.”

The man shrugged, walking along beside Michael. “They said you had a long night.” It was the guy from the subway station: Michael recognized him more from his voice than his appearance. Belatedly, he remembered the English accent, educated and vaguely upper-class.

“Did they find any bullets in the girl?”

“No, it went right through.”

“I thought so.” They’d walked into the lift, and the Englishman pressed a button for the lobby. “This is what struck her.” He fished into a pocket and produced a small, glowing blue object. Michael took it and stared, fascinated, holding it up to the light. It was shaped like a bullet, but it seemed to be filled with some kind of fluid whose glow felt very bright against his eyes, like a sun lamp. He remembered the tiny blue lights flashing in the metro station.

“What the hell?” he grunted.

“Ultraviolet bullets.” The man reached into his pocket again, producing more of them. “They were all over the station.”

“Who the hell uses UV ammo?”

“Good question, when you consider the most powerful source of ultraviolet radiation.”

“The sun,” Michael said automatically.

The door pinged open, and they stepped out into the lobby, quiet at this early hour. Michael made a quick detour to discard his sandwich wrapper and empty paper cup.

“Sunlight, molded into a weapon,” the Englishman agreed. “Fascinating. And then there were these.” He fished into a second pocket and produced another handful of bullets. Instead of looking dull, like lead, they gleamed bright and shiny in the man’s palm.

“Silver?” asked Michael.

“Exactly,” the Englishman said. “Silver bullets.”

Even in Michael’s exhausted state, the strangeness of the conversation began to sink in. “What the hell weird shit is this?” he muttered. For the first time he really took a look at the Englishman, then he realized the fellow was steering him subtly but firmly out onto the sidewalk. “What did you say your name was?”

The man didn’t respond; he was turning his head, scanning up and down the dark street, as if looking for something. The rain had stopped, but a cold mist hung over the city, and Michael shivered inside his damp clothes.

A taxi approached, and the Englishman put two fingers in his mouth, whistling a shrill blast that echoed off the tall buildings.

“I can take the metro,” Michael protested.

“The metro’s not safe for you any more.” The taxi came to a stop, and the man steered Michael over to it. He flashed some kind of ID card to the driver, shouting in fluent, colloquial Hungarian, then pushed Michael into the back seat and got into the car beside him.

Michael felt events spinning rapidly out of control. “Wh—” Then he stopped short; the Englishman was giving him a hard, warning look, and there was a sense of authority about him that Michael felt reluctant to challenge. His sense of disquiet deepened to alarm when the Brit gave the driver his address. _How the fuck did he learn that?_

The cab sped through the pre-dawn streets; whatever the stranger had told the driver, it must’ve impressed upon him the need for haste. The Englishman settled back in the seat, and Michael assessed him warily: he was tall and very thin, brown hair, brown clothes, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. Was he with a British intelligence agency—MI5, Scotland Yard?

At Michael’s apartment building, the Englishman thanked the driver in Hungarian and jumped out of the cab. Michael crawled out after him, glad to be home.

“What’s going on?” he asked as the taxi departed.

“Not until we get inside.” The man peered about intently, listening. “It’s safe—at least for now, but you really need to find somewhere else to stay.” He steered Michael over to the lift and hit the down arrow.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Ultraviolet bullets, silver bullets, that body in the metro station. Use your brain, Michael!”

Michael remembered the charred corpse on the subway platform, its strikingly odd white teeth, the elongated canines. _Sunlight. Who uses sunlight as a weapon? And silver? Silver bullets?_

“Shit,” Michael breathed.

“They’ve been following you, haven’t they? They were following you tonight, on your way to the underground. They have your address, Michael. They know where you work and where you live, and they’re going to keep coming after you.”

The elevator doors opened, and the Englishman pushed Michael inside, banging on the button for the fifth floor.

“Vampires and werewolves?” Michael said skeptically, feeling stupid for even uttering the words. “I know we’re in Eastern Europe, but do you expect me to believe…?” He faltered at the expression on the other man’s face. “You’re serious about this.”

The Brit was watching the numbers flash over the elevator door, twitching slightly with impatience. “I’m serious,” he said. “Very, very serious.” When the doors opened, he first checked the hallway—which lay empty and quiet—and steered Michael down the hall by the elbow.

“Who the hell are you, some kind of nutso Van Helsing?” Michael demanded.

“Shh!” The Englishman had stopped, and a moment later, Michael saw why: the door to his apartment stood ajar. Inch by inch, the two of them crept along the corridor. Michael felt confused and angry and more than a little frightened. He wanted to brush off Van Helsing as a crazy British eccentric, but part of him still worried, _What if he’s right?_

Then Michael’s phone rang.

They stood out in the hallway, listening to its bleating summons. Michael’s outgoing message kicked in. He heard his own tinny voice: “Hi, it’s Michael. You know what to do.”

After the bleep, he heard Adam speaking. “Michael? Michael, when you get this message, call me at the hospital immediately. There were two cops here, and they said—”

Michael bolted away from Van Helsing and into the apartment. He stared at his answering machine, listening to the rest of Adam’s message. “… you’re wanted for questioning in connection with the shooting in the metro station. I told them there’s no way you could’ve possibly been involved with it, and—”

Without warning, something swooped out of the apartment’s shadowy recesses, grabbing Michael by the throat and lifting him off the floor. It was the Goth woman from the metro station, and she pinned him up against the wall with impossible strength.

“Why are they after you?” she shouted.

His apartment door slammed shut with an explosive crack. The Goth woman dropped Michael, and he gasped, glad to have her hand off his throat and his feet on the floor. She aimed a fearsome-looking gun at the door.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

Van Helsing wandered into the flat, unfazed by the ugly weapon pointed at him. He flipped a switch on the wall, flooding the apartment with crepuscular yellow light. Michael blinked; so did the Goth woman—he could tell that this turn of events had thrown her off-balance.

“Why don’t you put that silly thing away, and we can get all this sorted? Michael, put on some water, would you? I could do with a spot of tea.” He sounded so relaxed, casual, almost happy, as if he were doing nothing more remarkable than reuniting with some old mates at a London pub. The Goth woman stood staring at him, thunderstruck. For the first time, Michael registered the extraordinary pallor of her skin. Her mouth hung open slightly, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed and tasted the air.

“What _are_ you?” she breathed, leaning slightly toward Van Helsing. “You’re not lycan, you’re not a vampire, you’re certainly not human—”

The mention of vampires sent another bolt of fear through Michael. Then the whole building seemed to shudder, and plaster rained down from the ceiling.

“ _Lycans!_ ” the woman shouted, her face contorting in a snarl, eyes flashing pale blue. “On the roof!” She fired at the ceiling. “Get down!”

But Michael couldn’t take any more: he turned and bolted, throwing open the apartment door and running into the hallway.

“Michael, no! It’s not safe!” Van Helsing yelled, and Michael could feel the Englishman on his heels, but he had one objective in mind: get away, get as far away from those two lunatics as he possibly could.

The lift was still on the fifth floor. Michael sprinted into the car, banged the “close” knob, then hit the button for the first floor. He heard gunshots and someone thumping impotently on the elevator doors, but the old car blessedly carried Michael downward. Shaking with fear, he waited, gasping with relief when the lift reached the first floor.

The door slid open. And there stood another man, a slender fellow with long dark hair, wild gray eyes, and a distinctly feral look to him. He smiled menacingly.

“Hello, Michael.”

II. _Bullet the Blue Sky_

Selene fired at the ceiling, her mind racing to seemingly a dozen places at once. Corvin had bolted; she needed to get him back. Then there was the threat posed by that… that _thing_ who’d been with him. What was it? What did it want? At the back of conscious thought, she still worried about Kraven’s indifference to the possibility of a new lycan uprising—a danger that now seemed very real, given the fully-fledged beasts slamming their way into the apartment building.

She raced into the hallway, tearing around the corner toward the lift, but Corvin was already on his way to the first floor, his erstwhile friend nowhere in sight. Three lycans had crashed through a window at the end of the hall and were racing along the walls and floor. Selene fired, picking off one, but the other two came at her, fueled by berserkers’ rage. Her head turned, looking wildly for an escape route, but the entrance to the stairwell lay at the far end of the corridor, with the lycans blocking the way.

 _Time to improvise_. Twisting and turning, Selene fired down at the floor with both guns, sending up a spray of splintered wood and plaster. As the lycans bore down on her, she succeeded in weakening the floor enough so that she crashed down into the fourth-floor hallway. She put all her vampiric strength into flight, bolting down the corridor and into the stairwell. A strong scent wafted up, telling her that the strange creature had used this escape route, also; she heard his footsteps near the bottom. Selene leaped over the banister and dropped straight down the four flights, landing smartly on the first floor.

The creature had just reached the bottom, and when Selene landed in front of him, he didn’t blink. “Michael’s in the lift!” he said, as if resuming an interrupted conversation. They bolted into the hallway, where the rich odor of a lycan assaulted her nose. A male in human form stood at the end of the hallway, near the doors to the lift, which had just opened. Selene raised both guns and fired, charging at the beast. It fell, not backwards, as she’d hoped, but rather _into_ the lift. She heard Corvin shouting. An instant later, she was at the elevator door, reaching in to grab the American’s legs. He screamed as she dragged him out into the hallway, freeing him from the grip of the wounded male lycan. She had no time to explain anything as she hauled him to his feet and shoved the gun against his neck.

“ _Move!_ ” she ordered, and he complied, probably more terrified of the lycan than of her. _Well, that shows good judgement_ , she thought, half-steering, half-dragging him to the exit. To her shock, the Jaguar sat waiting right outside the door, engine running, lights on, the odd-smelling creature behind the wheel.

“Get out of my car!” she screamed, pointing the gun at him, but the two transformed lycans burst into the first floor corridor, leaving Selene no time to argue. She threw Corvin into the back and leaped into the front passenger seat.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” the driver said tersely, accelerating away from the apartment building so quickly that Selene felt the g-force pushing her back against the Jag’s seat. She reached for the shoulder restraint, buckling herself in.

“Who the _fuck_ are you crazy people?” Corvin shouted.

“Explanations later,” the driver shot. Selene saw that he’d somehow managed not only to deactivate the car’s alarm system but to start the engine without keys.

Selene twisted around, her vampiric senses on alert, and to her alarm, spotted the male lycan racing toward the Jaguar at top speed.

“Step on it!” she barked, but the Jaguar was already roaring along the darkened road at almost ninety. “We’ve got company!” She didn’t know who or what the strange creature beside her was, but it handled the car as if it had learned how to drive on a racetrack. “Michael, get down!”

Selene unfastened her seatbelt and opened her window.

“What’re you doing?” the driver yelled.

“Killing it before it kills us!”

With a phenomenal leap, the male lycan sprang up onto the roof of the car, balancing perfectly. His eyes glowed blue, fangs exposed in a snarl. Selene shot up at him, but with her odd angle and the speed of the car, her bullets went wild. She pushed herself further out the window, firing again. Her heart jolted when a long sword blade snapped out of his coat sleeve, and he lunged at her. _Filthy beast!_ Selene knew for certain she’d never seen this lycan before: he must be old to be so powerful, but his features had an oddly familiar cast. Long dark hair flew in crazy streamers around his shoulders.

Selene fired and fired, trying to avoid the flashing blade, but her movement was limited, and the sword cut into her shoulder. She cried out, firing wildly. Now it was the lycan’s turn to scream: she’d struck his kneecap, and he almost lost his precarious hold on the roof of the car.

“Get inside; I’ll throw him off!”

In too much pain to argue, Selene slid back into the Jag. The driver braked hard and turned the wheel rapidly, spinning the car in a 360-degree circle. Corvin, hunkered down on the floor in the back, was slammed hard against the driver’s side rear door. With a thump, the lycan went tumbling off the roof and onto the ground, landing on his injured knee, unable to rise. The car straightened out, picked up speed, and went tearing off into the city. The lycan gave up his pursuit, but Selene didn’t delude herself that his injuries were fatal. _I haven’t_ _seen the last of that one_.

“Pull over,” she ordered, but her voice lacked its usual strength.

“You’re bleeding,” the driver responded, loosening his necktie and handing it to her. “You’d better bind that wound.”

In the back, Corvin groaned. “My head.”

“Where are you going?” Selene asked, struggling to stay focused as she wrapped the tie around her bleeding shoulder.

“Home,” the driver said tersely, shifting gears. “Following the GPS back to where the car last came from.”

 _Clever bastard_. Selene’s vision swam. She heard the driver say, “Michael, see what you can do with that wound of hers…” The world went black.

(ii)

When Selene came round again, she found that the passenger seat backrest had been opened out so that she lay prone, her shoulder now bound in layers of cloth. She sniffed the improvised bandages, which reeked heavily of Corvin’s sweat. His shirt. Cautiously, she turned her head. The young medical intern lay sprawled out on the back seat, asleep or unconscious. In the dim light, he seemed very young, and Selene felt an unfamiliar spasm of tenderness for him.

“Careful, there,” the driver warned. “That’s a nasty stab wound.”

Selene checked beneath the dressing, finding the wound raw, but no longer bleeding. The worst had passed, and now her normal rapid healing took effect.

“I’ll be all right. How long’ve I been out?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

Selene sighed. _Shit_. She reached for a lever on the side of her seat and eased herself up into a sitting position.

“Who are you?” she finally asked.

“I’m the Doctor. Who are you?”

“Selene,” she told him shortly.

“Selene.” He rolled the name across his tongue. “Lovely. Greek moon goddess. Fitting for a vampire.” She started, staring across at him, and he glanced back at her, amused. “Yes, I know what you are.”

“Is ‘Doctor’ a title or an alias?”

“A little of each.”

Fascinated, despite her fear, worry, and irritation, Selene leaned closer to him, inhaling his scent deeply. She cocked her head, listening. Her ears must be playing tricks. Wiggling closer, Selene slid a hand inside his coat and jacket, feeling his chest experimentally. His body temperature was lower than a human’s, by fifteen or twenty degrees Fahrenheit, she guessed.

“We’ve only just met,” he said lightly, but Selene ignored the banter.

“My God, you’ve got two hearts,” she said. “I can hear both of them beating.” She stretched her head closer, listening at his neck; he might look like an ordinary man, but from the sounds of things, he was far from human under the skin. “You have a completely different vascular system.” She ran a curious finger over his jawline, feeling the beginnings of stubble, then lightly touched his Adam’s apple: he was unquestionably male. “Your scent isn’t human. It’s not lycan, either. You’re certainly not a vampire. You’re not any kind of a human hybrid or mutant. You’re a completely different species.”

“Thanks for clearing that up. I wasn’t too sure when I woke up this morning.”

Selene sat back in her seat, utterly flummoxed as the truth sank in. “You’re an extraterrestrial.”

“Flawless application of logic. I like you, Selene.”

“How did you get here? To this planet?”

He glanced over at her again. “Don’t you watch movies?”

“I don’t have time for frivolous entertainment!” she snapped.

As if gently explaining something to a child, he said, “I came here in a space ship.”

“Without anyone noticing?”

“What, like eluding human technology is some kind of challenge?”

He had a point. She demanded, “Do you have any idea how dangerous this war is?”

“A war between vampires and werewolves? A fair idea, yes.”

“What’s your interest in it, then?”

“I don’t want humans getting hurt. Two people died during that underground shootout tonight. Three more were critically injured.”

“That’s regrettable,” she sighed. “We usually avoid humans.”

He gave her a steely look. “Except when you’re hunting them?”

“We don’t feed off humans!” Selene roared. He didn’t flinch in the face of her anger. “I can’t speak for lycans, but believe it or not, it’s against our laws for vampires to hunt humans! Any vampire caught killing one is put to death.”

He seemed chastened for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “What do you eat, then?”

“Blood,” she said. “Animal blood: pigs, cows, goats—the same animals people consume. In earlier times, we hunted deer and wild boar. Now we manufacture artificial blood.”

“Kinder, gentler vampires?” He raised one eyebrow skeptically. “So, if you’re not fighting werewolves over food resources, what’s this war about? Territory? There can’t be all that many of you, otherwise people would be up in arms.”

“Our numbers are small,” Selene revealed. “I don’t know about the lycans.” Ironically, she added, “Nobody’s taken a census recently.”

“Well, if the subway tunnels are anything to go by, I’d say there’s a fair number living right under Budapest, maybe a hundred or more.”

He said this so casually that Selene did a double-take, gawking at him. “How do you know?”

A smile touched his mouth. “That caught your ear, did it?”

“Tell me what you know!” She pointed the gun at his head.

“Put it away.” He drove on, unfazed, and Selene realized the weapon didn’t intimidate him; he knew that if she killed him, she’d never get the information she wanted. Grudgingly, she lowered the Beretta.

“Tell me what you’re fighting over,” he bargained. “Then I’ll tell you what I’ve seen.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t.”

Selene debated. Of course, revealing any of the covens’ secrets to an outsider represented a grave offense, one punishable by death. But she badly needed this information. Selene realized the alien might have knowledge that would enable her not only to destroy the lycans but to discredit Kraven in the process, an opportunity (she admitted to herself) she couldn’t pass up. That tipped the scales in the alien’s favor. She decided to take her chances.

“It’s a blood feud, going back centuries,” she said. “To the early middle ages. Six hundred years ago, the vampires defeated the lycans’ most powerful leader, a man named Lucian.” Kraven had been responsible for that, damn him. “Most of his followers were massacred. They’ve never regrouped their old strength since then, and we’ve been hunting down what’s left of them.”

“Is that what you do?” His quick glance took in her garb and weapons. “Kill lycans?”

“I’m a Death-Dealer.”

“A vampire assassin,” he ruminated. “But you haven’t said what the war is _about_. What started it?”

“I don’t know,” Selene admitted.

“You’ve been fighting a war for six centuries and you _don’t know why_?” His voice rose on a note of incredulity.

“Digging into the past is forbidden.”

“That should tell you something right there. Who issued that particular edict?”

“The Elders. The three leaders of the vampire covens.”

“And you’ve never been curious? You kill because someone ordered you to?”

“Lycans butchered my family!” she burst out. She wouldn’t rest, ever, until the very last one of those beasts had been wiped off the face of the earth. “I don’t need any more reason than that!”

He fell silent. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. His genuine sympathy startled Selene. “So, it’s personal?”

“Yes,” she said tersely. “I really don’t care how it all got started.”

“Is there any way to find out?”

“Why are you so curious?”

He shrugged. “It helps to know these things. Has anyone ever tried brokering peace between the two races?”

“Never. Anyone who tried it would be too stupid to live.”

He let that one pass. Selene glanced out at the dark forest that whipped past the Jag’s windows. They would reach the house in about twenty minutes, so there wasn’t much more time for conversation. In the back, Michael groaned.

“He has a concussion,” the alien said.

Selene pressed, “What did you see in the tunnels?”

He shifted gears, slowing the car slightly to navigate a bend in the road. “Lycans. Lots of them. They’re living in an old World War II bunker under the city. It’s accessible by the train tunnels if you know where to look.”

Selene breathed, “I _knew_ I heard something down there! Did you actually see them?”

“I only saw three, but I heard and smelled a lot more. One of them was the man who attacked you tonight.”

“The one who tried to take Michael,” Selene nodded, remembering the lycan at the elevator.

“There was an enormous black man with a very deep voice. He was involved in the underground station attack—he used a pair of machine guns.”

“That’s Raze,” Selene scowled. “An alpha male. He can change forms at will.” She herself had killed Trix, his toady little accomplice; both lycans had been stalking Corvin before the shootout. “Who was the third?”

“A scientist of some type. Middle-aged looking, Austrian accent. They called him Singe. Both Raze and Singe deferred to the first one—I didn’t catch his name, but I think he’s their leader. They were arguing about how they need to find Michael—something they’re trying to keep secret from the vampires.” The alien glanced at Selene. “I didn’t have much time to look around, but they’re running a crude research lab down there.”

“How’d you get that far inside without them discovering you?”

With a lift of one eyebrow, he said, “Experience. And a lot of good timing. The lycans were preoccupied and distracted from the fight. Besides, they’ve never smelled anything like me, and there’s enough of a stink down there so my scent was pretty well masked.” He wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t stay long, but I did get a look around the lab. Does the name Alexander Corvinus mean anything to you?”

Stunned, Selene told him, “He was the first immortal.” Vampire mythology didn’t interest her much, but she certainly knew the name of Corvinus. “All vampires are descended from him. At least according to our legends, which might be nothing more than stories.”

“Singe had the name on a big bulletin board, along with the names of other people named Corvinus—or Corvin. Dozens of other people.”

Selene’s mind reeled, and she glanced back at Michael, still unconscious in the back seat. “ _That’s_ why they’re so interested in him.”

“They were holding two men prisoner, both with the last name Corvin. One of them was already dead when I got there.” The alien’s jaw tightened. “It looked like the lycans had been experimenting on both men’s blood, mixing it with vampire blood to see what would happen. That’s about all I learned—I wanted to get the man who was still alive to safety.”

“They’re trying to mingle vampire and lycan blood to breed a new species,” Selene blurted, aghast at the lycans’ audacity. For one horrified instant, she imagined how powerful such a creature would be.

“Which is why they’re looking for humans who carry the Corvinus DNA,” the alien concluded.

“My God, this is serious! And Kraven doesn’t believe me—”

“Who’s Kraven? Is that really his name?”

“Yes,” growled Selene.

“I see you don’t like him. Kraven!” The Doctor pronounced the name with relish. “Craven thief, craven liar, craven conformist—I haven’t even met him, and I don’t like him.”

“He’s everything his name implies, and more,” Selene scowled. “A vain peacock, an infernal bureaucrat, only interested in his own advancement in the coven. Bastard! I told him I thought there was a den of lycans down there, and he brushed me off, wouldn’t believe me—”

“Does he have something to hide?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

“While you’re at it, find what’s at the heart of this war, and you might get more answers,” the Doctor advised. Selene realized she’d stopped thinking of him as “the alien” and had started thinking of him as “the Doctor,” and despite her instinctive distrust of almost everyone and everything, she also found herself regarding him as an ally. Certainly—provided he wasn’t lying—he’d just handed her a lot of valuable information. Abruptly, he asked, “Do werewolves and vampires both spread their condition by biting humans? Were you born a vampire, or did someone turn you?”

“Most of us were once humans,” she said. “It’s a dangerous process—the condition is transmitted by a virus that’s deadly. Only the very strongest people can survive the transformation. I know you won’t believe this, but we never turn humans without first asking their permission and warning them of the dangers. I don’t know if lycans have a similar code—I doubt it. There’s a few pure-born vampires, but they’re rare. Giving birth is one of the most dangerous things female vampires can do—so many of them bleed to death during labor.”

“So you could, theoretically, give birth to a child who’d be born a vampire?”

“Theoretically, yes.” Selene couldn’t imagine herself as a mother.

“And lycans?”

Selene’s upper lip curled. “They seem to have less trouble with it. They breed like rabbits.”

“Fantastic!”

“What’s so fantastic about it?” she demanded.

“It means that vampires and lycans are more than just human hybrids. You’re both viable species, capable of reproducing your own kind. Selene, that’s staggering! It’s an evolutionary leap that’s happened within only a thousand years—humanity changing into new forms! Of course it’s fantastic!”

“I can’t share your enthusiasm, Doctor.” The mansion lay not too far ahead, but Selene knew they couldn’t go in through the main gate. “There’s a small access road about a mile ahead, on the left—turn off there.” She mulled over all these revelations, trying to sort them out and form the best plan of action. Curiously she asked, “What’s your interest in all this? What do you want? You must have some personal stake in our conflict, to get so involved. You must realize you’re putting your life in serious jeopardy.”

“It’s not personal. I only want to keep people safe. And because I’m a hopeless idealist, I’d like to see your lot and the lycans settle your differences, even if it means you both live on separate continents.” He turned his head fully toward her, his gaze unsettling. “Selene, I’m the last one of my kind. My entire race was wiped out in a war with another species. I’d hate to see that happen to the first two species to evolve from _Homo sapiens_. And if this war of yours keeps escalating, that’s exactly what will happen. Either you’ll wipe yourselves out, or humans will drive you to extinction. Vampires and werewolves have enough bad press on this planet as it is; if it becomes common knowledge that your species actually exist, there’s going to be an all-out war for the top of the food chain. At a rough guess, people outnumber vampires and lycans combined by about five billion. Who do you think is going to win that war?”

“You can’t broker peace,” Selene insisted. “Not you, not on your own. I couldn’t even bring you into the house, certainly not with Kraven in charge—he’d kill you on the spot. One of the elders _might_ be persuaded to grant you an audience, but only on neutral territory, and even that’s doubtful.” _If only Viktor were here_ , Selene lamented. Her sire almost certainly would have enjoyed meeting an intelligent life-form from another world.

“I’d still like to learn what’s at the heart of this conflict.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Selene said quietly, “There’s books in the mansion… I’ve never looked at them, but I know where they’re kept. They cover the history of our species.” For the first time in six centuries she experienced curiosity about the contents of those volumes.

“I’d like to have a look at them. I wouldn’t need much time.” They’d reached the turn-off, and the Doctor deftly guided the Jag onto the narrow dirt road, shifting gears to slow the car.

“So would I.” Selene briefly debated trying to smuggle the books out of the mansion, but she knew from rumor that the volumes were too big to be easily concealed. Her gaze turned to the Doctor again, assessing his intelligence, his determination.

“I can drop you off about half a mile from here,” she said. “The road curves around the back of our property. It’ll be sunrise soon, and the house will be settling down. The property’s surrounded by a high fence, and there’s motion sensors. And dogs.”

“Dogs that’ve been trained to respond to human and lycan scents,” he reminded her.

“If you can get past them undetected, go up to the roof. My quarters are in the center of the north wing, facing the front. There’s trapdoors on the roof and more inside the attic. Find the one over my suite. It leads down into a closet. I’ll undo the trap for you and leave it ajar. Be very quiet—vampires have excellent hearing. Wait in the attic until I give you the all-clear signal.” If he’d been able to infiltrate the lycan lair, could he also get into the mansion undetected? Selene knew it wouldn’t hurt to test his skills and cunning. And if he turned on her later, she wanted to have taken the measure of his abilities.

“All right.” He slowed the car, turning it at the spot she indicated.

“If you’re discovered, Doctor, we never met. I don’t know who you are.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “What about Michael? Can you bring him inside?”

“Kraven won’t like it, but I can always say I brought Michael here for questioning. Death-Dealers have certain privileges, including the right to interrogate prisoners in any way we see fit.”

He nodded. From one pocket he produced a slender metal tube that resembled a penlight. He aimed it at the car’s ignition, and with a quiet whine, a cool blue light flashed out. The engine stopped abruptly.

“What’s that?” asked Selene, fascinated.

He held it up. “Sonic screwdriver.”

Selene stared at it. _Alien technology_ , she shivered.

He unfastened his seatbelt and opened the driver’s door. “Give me twenty minutes.”

Selene got out of the passenger side, shutting the door and striding around to the driver’s seat. She watched the alien’s tall figure vanish into the pre-dawn mist and darkness, marveling at how he’d altered her very perceptions of reality. Then she started the Jag’s engine again, shifted the car into gear, and headed back out for the main road. The sun would soon be rising. She needed to take shelter inside the mansion, to question Michael about what he knew—and to deal, somehow, with the odious Kraven.

(iii)

After passing through the front gates, she took the Jag around to the mansion’s north face and hauled Michael out of the backseat, slinging his body over her shoulder. A pair of young Death Dealers had emerged at her arrival, and she threw her keys to one of them. “Park it,” she ordered.

The youngster obeyed with alacrity, and his partner eyed Michael with an incredulous expression.

“For questioning,” Selene told him, heading inside through the side door.

“You didn’t use one of the safe houses?” he blurted.

“The city was crawling with lycans. Is Khan still about?”

“He’s with the guests. And Kraven. Would you like me to fetch them?”

“No,” she said, silently blessing the arrival of Amelia’s envoy, which would keep Kraven occupied, probably past sunrise—such an ambitious bastard wouldn’t miss the opportunity to fraternize with the female Elder’s entourage. Selene preferred to discuss the situation with Khan in private. “No, don’t bother them. I’ll see what this one knows, then dump him out somewhere tonight.”

“Of course,” the young Death Dealer murmured. He wouldn’t question Selene’s actions beyond that. But there was no avoiding other vampires on the way upstairs, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before word reached Kraven about Selene’s human prisoner.

Once in her own rooms, she settled Michael on the chaise lounge—he was still unconscious—and hastily went to close the heavy drapes that covered her windows. She shut the door to her room, then went quietly to the closet and opened the trap to the attic—each room had one, an escape in case of fire—leaving it slightly ajar. Then she pushed the closet door shut again.

Michael groaned softly, and Selene went to his side. He was sweaty and disheveled, probably exhausted, and once again she felt that dangerous twinge of tenderness. His eyes flicked open. They were fine eyes, she thought—blue-gray in color, full of intelligence and compassion, and right now, fear.

“Shh.” She pressed her fingertips gently against his shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I’m Selene. Don’t try to move around too much. You took a nasty knock to the head.”

“Whaddayou want?” he mumbled.

“Only to ask you some questions,” she began, but his eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out again. _Damn!_ she thought.

While she waited for him to come around again, she slipped out of her protective armor, undressing down to the sleeveless chemise she wore beneath the black leather. She heard overhead the faintest of creaks, a sound she normally would have taken for one of the ordinary sounds the old building made. A moment later, a faint scent wafted into the room from the direction of the closet. Selene’s eyebrows went up, and she checked the watch on her left wrist. _Impressive_.

She returned to Michael’s side, watching him sleep, stroking long brown hair out of his face. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice when the door to her room opened with a soft click.

“So for once the rumors are true. Everyone’s simply buzzing about your new pet.”

Selene turned, glaring at Erika, one of Kraven’s female lackeys, a relatively new addition to the coven. The blonde vampire made her way over to the chaise lounge for a better look.

“Did Kraven send you?” Selene growled.

“No, I was curious.” Erika studied Michael’s face, recognizing him from his photo on Selene’s laptop. “He’s the human those lycans were hunting.”

“Yes.”

“So, why’d you bring him here?”

“For questioning.”

Erika’s pretty face registered skepticism. “This doesn’t look like much of an interrogation.”

“He’s unconscious,” Selene said, as if explaining something to an idiot.

Something in her tone must have betrayed her, because Erika said, “Oh God, you’re going to try to turn him, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Selene snapped. “Erika, I don’t have time for idle—”

The blonde female had forgotten Michael, wandering into the center of the room. “What’s that smell?” she asked, inhaling and turning around.

“ _What_ smell?” Selene did her best to sound irritated, but her pulse jumped uneasily.

“That _smell_ —I’ve smelled it before somewhere, I know I have.”

“Erika, get out of here!” Selene barked, moving to intercept the younger woman, but she wasn’t fast enough. Erika scampered over the closet and pulled the door wide.

Selene’s breath came out in a whistling rush. The Doctor stood inside the small space, staring out at Erika with an utterly flabbergasted expression.

“Reinette?” he said, looking absurdly close to tears. “Reinette? Is it you?” He stepped out into the room, reaching to touch Erika’s face. His voice shook when he said, “They turned you into a vampire?” She stood there rapt, not pulling away from him, and Selene felt something palpable jump between them.

 _Shit_ , she thought, _this is a complication I **don’t** need!_

The alien turned his attention to Selene. “You’re right,” he said. “This _is_ personal. It just got _very_ personal.”

  1. _Until the End of the World_



Selene first made sure the door to the corridor was closed and locked. Then she said, “Keep your voices down.” Returning to the center of the room, she asked, “You two know each other?”

Erika stared at the Doctor, perplexed. “No… but I feel like I do. I know your scent; I’d swear it.”

Selene turned her gaze to the alien. “Where’ve you met Erika?”

“That’s not her name.” He was staring into Erika’s eyes. “Her name is Reinette.” He’d switched to French without Selene being aware of it. “Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson. She was born in 1721.”

“Impossible,” Selene stated. “Erika, it’s only been, what… sixty years?” She told the Doctor, “She’s German—one of the vampires picked her up in Berlin after the Second World War—isn’t that right?” Selene was hazy on the details of Erika’s arrival in the coven, but she knew it had been within the past century. She’d always assumed one of the males had turned her out of sexual interest.

The Doctor smiled sadly, shaking his head. “She’s a lot older than that. Someone’s wiped your memories, Reinette.” He told Selene, “She was born in Paris. Later she married and became Madame d’Etoilles. Louis XV dissolved her marriage so she could become his official consort. History remembers her as Madame de Pompadour.”

Selene gawked at the younger vampire, incredulous; she couldn’t possibly have such a pedigree. “But that’s _Erika_! She’s a—” She stopped just short of saying “a whore.” Curiously, she asked the Doctor, “Did you know her?”

He nodded. “When she was human. Reinette—you died young—you were forty-three. Do you remember anything about it?”

She shook her pale head, baffled.

Abruptly, Selene asked, “Who turned you? Was it Kraven? Soren?”

“I don’t remember,” Erika said. She concentrated for a moment, brow furrowing. “My first really clear memory is coming here at night—we were in a car, and there was a bad storm. I remember feeling afraid of how fast the car was moving. Then we were here.” She shrugged helplessly, shooting Selene a resentful expression. “When you’re at the bottom of the coven’s pecking order, you learn not to question things. Soren told me I’d been performing in a Berlin cabaret, that I’d had consumption, and I’d have died if I wasn’t turned.”

“But he didn’t say _he_ turned you?” Selene pressed, thinking with distaste of Soren, Kraven’s chief henchman. Erika, she knew, was free with her favors to Soren, probably hoping to inveigle herself more deeply in Kraven’s inner circle.

“No, never.”

“Nothing they told you is true, anyway,” the Doctor said.

“Are you sure you aren’t mistaken?” asked Selene. “Maybe Erika just looks like—”

“No, it’s her.” The Doctor stepped closer to Erika, sniffing her head. “Her hair still smells the same. You have a birthmark,” he told her, “on the upper inside of your left arm. It’s small and blue.”

Erika gawked at him. Then she rolled up the sleeve of her clingy lace jersey. On the pale skin of her inner arm Selene saw a tiny blue birthmark.

“So why can’t Erika remember anything?”

“My guess is that one of your lot spotted Reinette during her time in the king’s court,” the Doctor speculated, “and turned her when she was on her deathbed.”

Erika had gone to stare in Selene’s mirror. “I don’t look forty-three.”

“Of course not,” said Selene. “The process has a rejuvenating effect.”

“I also think someone’s wiped your memories,” the Doctor told Erika. “And replaced them with a false identity.” He said, “If you want, I can try to look.”

“How can you do that?” she asked.

“Come here.”

Selene watched as the Doctor placed his hands on either side of Erika’s head, two fingers above her ears and two behind. He closed his eyes, concentrating.

“You’re telepathic?” Selene asked uneasily.

He didn’t answer. A moment later, Erika gasped and went rigid.

“Shh, stay with me,” he murmured. Selene watched, fascinated. The Doctor had remarkably long hands, she noted, the fingers slim and tapered.

He broke away abruptly, looking sickened. Erika was shaking, her complexion almost gray. “They’re all fake,” she said. “Everything I’ve ever believed about myself is a lie!”

“There’s a block on her memory,” the Doctor told Selene. “Maybe more than one; I couldn’t get past it without causing her a lot of pain.” He put a hand on Erika’s shoulder. “I’ll help you get yourself back,” he said. “I promise.” He asked Selene, “Which vampires would have the ability to alter memory like this? It would take a lot of power to block someone’s entire past from their conscious thoughts.”

“One of the Elders,” Selene murmured.

“Your leaders?” the Doctor clarified.

“There’s three of them,” Erika provided. “Viktor, Amelia, and Marcus. They rule one at a time for a century each.”

“What about the other two?” the Doctor asked, surprised. “Do they take a holiday?”

“They hibernate,” said Erika. “In special tombs. Amelia has the throne right now, but she’ll be here tomorrow night to awaken Marcus and begin her next hibernation.”

This fascinated the Doctor. “How do they get by when they wake up and two hundred years of history have gone past?”

“The Elders can organize their memories,” Selene told him. “They can make a record of everything that’s happened during their reign and pass it along to the next Elder during the awakening process. So when the Elders wake up, they know exactly what’s happened during the past two hundred years, as if they’d experienced it themselves. It takes tremendous power.”

“So altering the memories of a newly-turned vampire wouldn’t be difficult.”

“Child’s play,” Selene agreed.

“If Amelia reigned over the twentieth century, who reigned before her?”

“Viktor reigned in the nineteenth century,” Selene told him. “Marcus in the eighteenth…” The truth hit her then. “It must’ve been him—Marcus. I remember he spent ages at the French court—a lot of vampires did. They loved that whole decadent lifestyle.” Selene herself had never been part of that: even then, her existence had been consumed with hunting down and killing lycans. She’d had utter contempt for those vampires who’d done nothing but hobnob with the European aristocracy.

“So Madame de Pompadour might easily have caught his eye,” the Doctor said.

“He never brought her into the coven,” Selene frowned. “That’s odd—and not at all like him. A king’s mistress would’ve been a great prize, and Marcus wouldn’t have been happy unless he could rub it in the other men’s faces.” She stared at Erika, baffled. “He must’ve been keeping you hidden somewhere.”

“She died in 1764,” the Doctor said. “About forty years before he was due to go into hibernation. Maybe he didn’t want her in the coven for two hundred years without him around.”

From the chaise, Michael groaned, reminding Selene of the bigger crisis at hand. “All this will have to wait,” she said, hurrying to Michael’s side. The young American was sweating and thrashing slightly in his sleep, mumbling quietly to himself.

“He’s delirious,” the Doctor said, concerned. He put his hands on the sides of Michael’s head, as he’d done with Erika. Frowning, he said, “There’s some violent nightmares going on in here… medieval torture chamber… what’s all that about?”

Michael convulsed, and the Doctor pressed his index fingers hard into the young man’s temples. Michael relaxed, exhaling a long breath.

“What’d you do?” asked Selene.

“Moved him out of REM sleep,” the Doctor said. “He’ll be out for a while longer. Why don’t we look at those books while we’re waiting for him to wake up?”

“What books?” asked Erika.

“The history of the vampire-lycan war,” the Doctor provided.

“They’re in the south wing,” Selene frowned. “There’ll be a Death Dealer on sentry duty between here and there. I can get past, but not you, Doctor.”

“Rodrigo’s on duty?” asked Erika.

“Yes,” nodded Selene.

“Give me five minutes.” She headed for the door.

“Reinette, you don’t need to,” the Doctor began.

“Five minutes,” she teased, winking at him over her shoulder.

“I really wish she wouldn’t do that,” the Doctor said unhappily.

“Why not?” Selene retorted. “It’s what she does best.” She went to her closet, digging out a leather trenchcoat that Nathaniel had left behind after a conference; he’d never come back for it, and now never would. Selene thought briefly of her hunting partner, dead in the subway tunnels, a lycan’s victim. She burned with cold rage. _I’ll avenge him_ , she vowed. “Here, put this on. Nobody wears brown around here; you’d stick out like a skyscraper.” The Doctor exchanged his long tan coat for the black leather duster. It hung slackly on his thin frame, but it completely covered his pinstriped brown suit. Thankfully his sneakers were black. He didn’t exactly look like a Death Dealer, but at least he wouldn’t stand out so obviously.

Selene checked her watch. When five minutes had passed, they slipped into the quiet hallway. Most of the coven had either retired for the daylight sleeping hours or were still down in the salon, partying with Amelia’s envoy. From an alcove between the north and south wings came muffled sounds of pleasure: Erika’s quiet gasps and Rodrigo’s excited groans. Selene and the Doctor moved swiftly until they reached the door to the library, one of the house’s least popular rooms. Only Selene and a handful of other Death-Dealers utilized it on a regular basis.

A door at the rear was always locked, and Selene knew that behind it lay a walk-in closet containing valuable old volumes, forbidden knowledge about the origins of their species and the history of their war with the lycans. The Doctor used his sonic device to spring the lock on the door. They quietly slipped inside, and he used the device again to unlock the glass case where the heavy volumes rested. A thick layer of dust coated the case; nobody had been inside this closet in decades, Selene guessed. She pulled the string for the overhead light.

A moment later, the closet door opened, and Erika slipped inside, adjusting her clothes and looking smug, pleased with herself.

The Doctor handed one volume to Selene, keeping another for himself. _I was right_ , she thought. _These are way too big to smuggle out of here_. He passed a third to Erika, and she joined him at one of the library’s mahogany reading tables. “Happy hunting,” he said, sliding a pair of black-rimmed spectacles onto his nose.

(ii)

Selene skimmed through pages of medieval woodcuttings, scanning the archaic text rapidly. She took care when turning the leaves: the paper was old, crumbling. Yet the age of the volume couldn’t lessen the impact of the illustrations. Some of them filled her with pride: medieval Death-Dealers, her predecessors, doing battle with hordes of lycans. Others unsettled her: images of werewolves chained together and branded like cattle. Even more distressingly, the brands always bore one of three letters: _V_ , _A_ , or _M_.

Viktor, Amelia, Marcus?

She quickly closed the book, setting it aside and choosing another. To her consternation, an entire section of pages seemed to be missing. She checked the back of the volume, but they hadn’t been tucked away, and a closer examination of the binding revealed the pages hadn’t fallen out due to age. They’d been deliberately cut away. On some of the surviving pages, sentences and whole paragraphs had been blacked out with India ink. Selene scowled. _Someone’s got something to hide_. The pages fell open to an account of the Battle of the Alps, vampires and lycans locked in a stylized depiction of mortal combat. In the background, smoke and flame issued from the openings of mountain caves. The book confirmed that only Kraven had survived the battle, emerging from the inferno with proof that he’d slain Lucian: branded skin from the lycan leader’s arm.

At the back of the book, a scrap of something resembling old leather had been attached to the binding. Selene pulled it off, tracing the stylized V. She turned back a couple of pages, to an illustration of a lycan she assumed was meant to be Lucian, but the face had been burned away. The upper right arm bore a brand mark in the shape of a V. Selene squinted more closely at the page. Hanging from around the lycan’s neck was a medallion. She’d seen that somewhere before: a small, round stone set into a tracery of Celtic knotwork.

She raised her eyes from the page, staring at the opposite wall, the shelves full of old volumes. _That lycan who attacked Michael!_ she realized. She remembered his strength, his speed, his deadly cunning, the sword concealed in his sleeve. What had the Doctor told her? _He seemed to be their leader_.

“My God,” she said out loud.

“What’d you find?” asked Erika. She and the Doctor came over to Selene’s table.

Stunned, Selene showed them the illustration, the scrap of skin. “I can’t be completely sure, but I think Lucian might still be alive. This was supposedly cut from his skin. But that lycan who tried to take Michael wore this exact same medallion.”

“Why’s the face burned away?” asked the Doctor.

“Someone who wants to keep it hidden,” Selene said grimly. “Someone who doesn’t want us to know Lucian’s still alive, gathering forces.”

“But only a lycan would want that,” Erika protested. “And if a lycan ever did break into the mansion, it wouldn’t exactly bother with old books.”

“A lycan didn’t do this.” The Doctor took the volume, examining the binding and the defaced pages. “Your memory’s not the only thing that’s been wiped, Reinette,” he said. “The collective memory of the coven’s been tampered with.” He looked down at Selene. “I hate to say this, but I think you’ve got a traitor in your midst. Someone with an interest in deliberately obscuring the past.”

“Kraven,” she muttered. “He’s behind this, I know it.”

“What would he gain by turning against the rest of us?” asked Erika.

“Power,” said Selene. She tried to imagine that, Kraven in league with the most powerful lycan in history. And somehow, Michael was in the middle of their plans. She stood up, aware they’d been inside the library too long.

“Doctor, did you find anything?” They returned the volumes to their glass case, shutting and locking the closet door.

“A chronicle of vampire lineage, dating back to Alexander Corvinus,” the Doctor provided. “He was born in the early fifth century, a warlord who came to power at the time some sort of epidemic was sweeping through Europe. I don’t think it was Black Death—the symptoms sound more like influenza, maybe even bird flu. It decimated Central Europe. But when Corvinus was stricken, he didn’t die. Somehow the virus mutated to his advantage. He not only survived, he became immortal. Not a vampire or a werewolf, though—that was very clear.”

“So where did the two species come from?” asked Selene.

“Corvinus fathered several children, including three sons. Two of them were twins. The book says one boy was bitten by a bat, the other one by a wolf.”

Selene and Erika both goggled at him. “So vampires and werewolves share a common beginning?” Selene asked. Before tonight, the very thought would have struck her as not only absurd, but obscene, blasphemous. Now she was beginning to view the past very differently.

“Well, that all might be legend, but it makes sense, given the similarities between your species and the lycans’ interest in the descendants of Corvinus.”

“What about the third son?” asked Erika. “What happened to him?”

“He was mortal,” the Doctor said. “He lived, he fathered twelve children of his own, and he died. Interestingly, he inherited the Corvinus title and lands, even though he was younger than his twin brothers.”

“Because the other two weren’t able to inherit,” Selene guessed. “Vampires can’t go out during daylight, and werewolves change into uncontrollable beasts during the full moon. Corvinus left everything he had to the one son who could walk freely among humans.”

“And Michael’s one of his descendants,” the Doctor said. “His mortal descendant.”

Erika peered out into the corridor. “I’ll go on ahead,” she whispered.

“Check on Michael,” Selene ordered. She watched the blonde vampire scurry away.

“One other thing.” The Doctor put his glasses back into a pocket. “You said one of your Elders is named Marcus. The one who turned Reinette, the one who’ll come out of hibernation tomorrow night.”

“What about him?” Selene responded.

“The Corvinus twin who was bitten by a bat was named Markus. Markus Corvinus. Could it be the same vampire?”

This revelation stunned Selene. “It could be,” she allowed. If true, it would mean Marcus was the oldest Elder—indeed, the oldest surviving vampire in the world—when she’d always been told it was Viktor. “What about the other twin?”

“William,” the Doctor provided. “And another fascinating detail—both the bat and the wolf that bit the boys had rabies. The writer didn’t call it that, but the symptoms he described are unmistakable. And like their father, the boys’ bodies mutated the virus, one twin taking on bat-like qualities and the other wolf-like. That’s how Corvinus knew his sons had inherited his condition. They didn’t die from the infection—they changed and became stronger.”

“And both passed their conditions along by biting humans,” Selene concluded. “That’s why the bite is so dangerous.”

The Doctor nodded. “It’s a mutated form of the rabies virus. What are the initial symptoms of infection? Fever, confusion, agitation, hallucinations—” He stopped short, a horrified expression dawning in his eyes. “ _Michael!_ ”

He shot out into the hallway, running, Selene on his heels. Even before they reached her room, Selene could hear the commotion: a shout of alarm, a loud cat-like hissing, the rapid thump of footsteps.

“Reinette! What’s—Selene, wait! Stay out there!”

She reached the doorway, recoiling: Michael had thrown open the heavy drapes that covered one window, sending a deadly shaft of yellow sunlight across the floor. Selene heard the barks of an angry Rottweiler.

“He’s gone—right out the window and up over the main gate.” The Doctor shut the window and pulled the drapes. “No human could’ve made that drop unharmed or jumped over a twelve-foot gate.” He turned, looking around, then glanced up. “Reinette—you can come down now.”

The blonde female had been clinging to the ceiling by her claws. She dropped to the floor, fangs bared, still hissing, eyes glowing pale.

Selene closed the door and leaned against it, fighting the urge to groan out loud at this latest complication.

“He’s a lycan.” Erika had gotten control of herself. “I saw the bite with my own eyes!”

“When was he bitten?” the Doctor asked, baffled, then the answer occurred to him at the same time it hit Selene.

“ _Lucian_ ,” she growled. The powerful male lycan had bitten Michael, somehow—Selene realized it must have happened in the elevator, and in her panicked rush to escape the apartment building, she hadn’t noticed. And now Michael would become a werewolf also, one of the creatures that Selene had sworn to hunt down and destroy.

(iii)

“You both need to get out of here,” she said. “Erika—how much can I trust you?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stick as close to Soren and Kraven as you can. Don’t break your usual routine or duties, don’t make them suspicious, but keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if they’re up to anything unusual.”

Erika nodded. “After sixty years of lying to me, they’ve got it coming.” With a last glance at the Doctor, she slipped out of the room.

Selene turned to the alien. “Catch up with Michael. He’s going to be sick and delirious, which will make it easy for Lucian’s men to grab him. I’ll try to touch base with you after sunset. The full moon starts tomorrow night, and if Michael’s not confined, he’s going to run berserk and kill people.”

The Doctor nodded. “I can hold him in my ship if I need to.”

“You’d better leave before anyone finds you.”

The Doctor exchanged Nathaniel’s leather duster for his own brown coat. Returning to the closet, he jumped up and grabbed the edges of the open trapdoor, pulling himself into the attic. Selene listened to the almost inaudible retreat of his footsteps, then refastened the trap and closed her closet door.

Less than five minutes later, a young Death Dealer materialized. “Kraven wants to see you. _Now_.”

The acting lord of the manor had worked himself up into a righteous froth. Without pausing for niceties, he roared, “You dared bring a human into my house?!”

Selene coolly gauged how drunk he must be (very), which she knew could work to her advantage. “I need to question him about lycan activity in the city.”

“There’s safe houses all over Budapest for that!”

“I couldn’t take chances—the city was crawling with lycans.”

“Crawling!” He made an ugly sneering expression. “In your imagination, maybe!”

“Tell that to the five who attacked me last night, all of them fully transformed alpha males. And that doesn’t include the two in the subway. This isn’t a random incursion, Kraven. They’re gearing up for war. And maybe you’ll deal with it by hiding your head in the sand, but I’m not going to!”

Infuriated, he yelled, “This is _my_ house, and I won’t stand for—”

“This is still Viktor’s house, as far as I’m concerned,” Selene interrupted. “The full moon’s tomorrow night; the lycans will be at their most powerful, and we’ll be awakening an Elder—you _know_ that makes us vulnerable! And if Michael knows something—”

Kraven seized on her use of the intern’s Christian name. “Oh, so it’s _Michael_ now! You’re infatuated with him, aren’t you?”

Trust Kraven to assume immediately the lowest common denominator. “Now, that’s a ridiculous theory,” Selene scoffed, her expression haughty. “I’m doing my job—protecting this coven, which is more than I can say for you! The lycans have an interest in him, Kraven! And anything that’s important to them should be a concern to us!”

Kraven exploded, “Why on earth would Lucian ever be interested in one stupid mortal?”

A Death Dealer—one of Soren’s men—appeared in the doorway. “Sir, the security cameras caught a human intruder fleeing the grounds—he escaped over the fence.”

Selene blanched. Enraged, Kraven swung around and viciously backhanded her across the face.

(iv)

_Why on earth would Lucian ever be interested in one stupid mortal?_

Selene stood at the firing range, still in her plain black chemise, firing merciless silver rounds into the plaster busts that popped up at intervals. One bust after another burst into fragments. Of course, Selene was such a good shot that the targets represented no challenge whatsoever. She didn’t need practice—she needed to burn off steam.

She’d taken far worse blows in nearly six hundred years of warfare, but Kraven’s slap had wounded her dignity more than her flesh. Grinding her teeth, she sent another round of bullets into the next plaster bust. One corner of her mind kept replaying Kraven’s provocative comment. He’d spoken of Lucian as if the werewolf leader still lived. A slip of the tongue? Selene saw again the man on the roof of her car, the pendant around his neck identical to the one pictured in the ancient, dusty volume. A volume that all but the Elders were forbidden to read, a volume that someone had deliberately defaced to obscure the information it contained. She thought of the lycan’s speed, his power, the way he’d fought. Even in their brief, violent encounter, she’d sensed great age in him. _Could it really be him?_ she wondered. _Am I mad even to be thinking this?_

Lucian, the most feared of all lycans, architect of the great war that had claimed the lives of so many vampires.

Still alive, in the twenty-first century.

Gathering forces.

Blindly experimenting to create a new race, perhaps an uber-werewolf, unstoppable even by silver.

In league with the shifty, power-hungry Kraven.

She heard footsteps and turned to see Khan approaching. The African vampire raised an eyebrow and said, “I sure hope you never get pissed off at me.”

She grunted and returned her attention to the firing range. Khan watched her blast another plaster bust into fragments. Then he said casually, “Here, check this out.” He handed her a gun, larger than the Berettas that Selene normally used. “Squeeze off a few.” Curiously, she waited for another plaster head to appear, then took aim and fired.

 _BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!_ The report of the weapon echoed loudly in the training dojo. Selene stared down the range at her target. A glistening liquid silver oozed out of the holes and down the plaster face.

“Eject the mag,” said Khan smugly.

Selene did as he suggested. Instead of silver bullets, she found that the pistol had been loaded with glass capsules virtually identical to those in the werewolves’ UV weapons.

“You copied the lycan rounds,” she realized, impressed by Khan’s ingenuity. She held one bullet up to the light. “Silver nitrate?”

“A lethal dose,” he confirmed.

“They won’t be able to dig out the bullets like they usually do.” Selene grasped the advantages of the new ammunition immediately.

“Right into the bloodstream,” Khan agreed. “Ain’t nothin’ to dig out.”

Selene set down the bullet and turned to face Khan, one of the few vampires, apart from Viktor, who she trusted fully. “Khan, do you think that Lucian died the way everyone says he did?”

The big African snorted quietly. “Kraven been tellin’ old war stories again?”

“That’s my point,” she said. “They’re just ancient stories— _his_ stories. We don’t have a shred of proof he killed Lucian, only his word.” That wasn’t strictly true—there was that scrap of branded skin Selene had found—but really, anyone could have cut that skin off. Kraven could have found the lycan leader already dead, removed the skin, and claimed the victory as his own. Assuming, of course, that Lucian was really dead.

“I’ve never underestimated Kraven’s lust for advancement,” Khan said. “But Viktor believed him, and that’s all that matters.” He gave Selene a peculiar look; like everyone else in the mansion, he probably knew about the human prisoner she’d let escape and her crazy theories that the lycans were in the midst of another uprising. “Now, where you goin’ with all this?”

Selene shook her head, her mouth tightening, frustrated that she couldn’t share what she knew even with one of her most trusted allies. “Nowhere.”

Another bust appeared and she picked up her Beretta. Then she paused, circling around the counter to examine the bust more closely. The target had been fashioned as a simulacrum of a man’s head, and to the uneducated eye, it vaguely resembled some classical musician. All the targets looked like this, and Selene asked herself, _Is it supposed to be Lucian?_ She studied the shape of the bearded face, the set of the eyes and mouth. The man depicted in the bust had short hair, but Selene swore that the figure bore exactly the same features as the man who’d attacked her at Michael’s apartment.

She felt a tickling vibration on her hip: her mobile phone. She opened the tiny device, startled: usually only Khan ever called her, and he was still standing right there. The caller ID screen glowed with a number in Budapest, “Laszlo’s Bakery.”

She pressed a button and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Yes?” Casually she wandered toward the door of the dojo.

“Michael?” The male voice spoke in Hungarian, thick with a working-class accent.

“You’ve got the wrong number.”

The voice continued, “His order is ready. I tried his workplace and his residence and he’s not there.” Selene realized then that it must be the Doctor—he’d guessed that all the vampires’ cellular phones were subject to surveillance. Silently she blessed his discretion.

Speaking in irritated Hungarian, she said, “There’s nobody here by that name. You must be mistaken.” And she disconnected.

Khan was looking at her oddly. “Who was that?”

Selene shrugged, returning to the firing range. “Wrong number.”

(v)

As soon as she could manage it without arousing suspicion, Selene went down to the mansion’s basement and slipped out into the underground parking garage. The coven kept a well-maintained fleet of vehicles, ranging from sports cars to SUVs to limousines, and a team of mechanically-inclined vampires kept them in crack running order. The last thing a Death Dealer needed when fleeing an angry lycan was a flat tire or a faulty transmission, and the last thing _any_ vampire needed was to be stranded beside a broken-down car with dawn on the horizon.

At this hour, the garage lay empty. Selene inhaled the pleasant mechanical smells of oil and petrol and rubber tires, sliding silently among the vehicles until she reached her Jaguar. She bleeped off the alarm, then opened the trunk. Inside lay a collection of weapons and a neatly kept box of emergency automotive supplies. Selene sifted among the firearms until she found one in particular, indistinguishable from its mates, and opened the leather case. Only someone with sharp eyes would notice that the gun was about three inches too short for its holster.

Two years earlier, Selene had taken the precaution of purchasing in Budapest an inexpensive disposable cell phone, which she kept hidden beneath an unloaded gun. The simple device lacked the features of her coven-issued mobile, but she could make calls free from the prying ears of the mansion’s security goons. The purchase had been prompted—even then—by her intense distrust of Kraven; although she always kept the spare fully charged, she’d never used it. Until now.

She powered up the disposable phone, glancing around to make sure she was alone in the garage, and entered in the number of Laszlo’s Bakery, which she took from her mobile’s “recent calls” menu.

After two rings, a man’s voice came on the line. “Yes?” it said in Hungarian.

“It’s me.” Selene kept her voice down and didn’t identify herself. She wondered how many Earth languages the Doctor knew. She spoke five fluently herself, and knew a smattering of at least a dozen others. “Do you speak Russian?” she asked, using the one language that she knew for a fact Kraven had never mastered.

“ _Da_.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. Corvin’s not at the hospital or at his apartment.” The Doctor’s Russian was as flawless and idiomatic as his Hungarian. “There’s police looking for him—he’s considered a suspect in the metro station shooting.” He paused. “It sounds like trumped-up charges.”

“Instigated by the lycans,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“Have you been underground? Have they taken him prisoner?”

“No, I looked in the lab. He’s not there.”

 _Shit!_ Selene disliked the idea of Corvin wandering around, delirious and out of his mind, with the full moon only twenty-four hours away. When the moon rose the next night, he would transform into a savage beast, a danger to himself and everyone around him.

“Keep looking,” she said. “Is this a safe number where I can reach you?”

“Yes, I picked up a cheap mobile and hijacked a local bakery’s line.”

Selene gave him the number of her disposable cellular. “Use that if you need to ring me again,” she said. “All phone activity into and out of the mansion is strictly monitored.” Two wrong numbers in one day would get her in even more trouble.

“Has Reinette learned anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you trust anyone else there?”

“No,” she said, once again glancing around the garage. She needed to end the call quickly before anyone found her. “Keep looking,” she said. “I should ring off.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Subconsciously, Selene had been toying with a mad idea, and the time had come to act. Kraven had had free reign over the coven for too long, and Selene would roast in the sun before she’d see her fellow vampires brought low because of that strutting peacock’s ambitions.

“I’m taking this to a higher power.” And she disconnected.

(vi)

Steam. It billowed in clouds around Selene as she stood naked in the bathroom, scrubbed clean from her shower. Using her index finger, she wrote six block letters on the mirror.

With one swift motion, she wiped her hand across the mirror, obliterating her sire’s name.

“Please forgive me,” she whispered. “But I desperately need your guidance.”

(vii)

She dried off, dressing herself in clean black leather. Feeling oddly calm and resolute, she went down to the security room and told the Death Dealer on duty, “Khan wants to see you.”

The youngster stood up and left the booth with alacrity, tossing a suspicious look back at Selene. She ignored him, and when he was out of sight, she hurried across the corridor to the massive double doors of the great crypt.

Beyond the doors lay a vast subterranean chamber, the floor inlaid with gorgeous Italian tile. Three metal circles lay in the center of the floor, each one an intricate metal filigree bearing a single, stylized initial: _V_ , _A_ , or _M_. The resting places of the three Elders.

The two males slumbered beneath the stone floor; Amelia’s sarcophagus, of course, was unoccupied. To the left lay the tomb of Marcus, to the right, that of Viktor. Selene knew she could have brought her suspicions to either Amelia, when she arrived, or to Marcus, when he awoke, but in truth, Selene had never been close to either of them, and she knew she had very little concrete proof. _The testimony of an extraterrestrial won’t hold much water_ , she thought ruefully. No, the only one of the three she really trusted was Viktor, and he wasn’t due to be awakened for another century, in accordance with the ages-old Chain of coven leadership. Only one Elder ruled at a time, which prevented power struggles among the three and assured the coven wouldn’t be fractured by internal warfare.

Selene knew that her plans would break the Chain and might well bring down ruin on the coven. _But if I don’t act_ , she thought, _we’ll be ruined anyway_.

Waiting for Amelia would do no good if Selene’s suspicions proved true. She didn’t think the timing of all this lycan activity was any kind of accident. The coven was always at its most vulnerable during the transfer of leadership.

Taking a deep breath, Selene hunkered down beside the hatch covering Viktor’s tomb and put her fingers in the grooves surrounding his initial. She turned the circle as far as it would go and stepped back, glancing over her shoulder.

Beneath the floor, ancient mechanisms sprang to life with a hollow reverberation. The metal grating broke into four pieces and retracted beneath the tiles. A slim sarcophagus rose up out of the dark cavity below, creaking softly on metal gears, until it stood upright, towering over Selene. She found the correct lever and pulled it so that the sarcophagus rotated and lay horizontally. Selene knew the procedure well; she’d attended four awakening ceremonies, starting back in the early sixteenth century, when Viktor had awakened Amelia.

Inside the cold metal coffin, beneath a sheet of glass, lay the shockingly mummified form of the greatest Elder, his flesh shriveled and desiccated. Selene knew how deceptive that appearance could be: all Elders looked like this when they came out of hibernation. She depressed a button on one side of the coffin, and with a mechanical hum, a metal feeding tube slid smoothly into place over Viktor’s gaping mouth. Selene wondered _Am I mad?_ before opening her gauntlet and biting into her wrist. There could be no turning back. She held her arm over a metal dish and let her blood drip down into it. The red trickle ran through the tube, flowing into Viktor’s mouth.

Only the Elders possessed the ability to organize their thoughts and memories into a cohesive vision, a living record of their reign. Selene knew she pitifully lacked that skill, but she did her best to pass an urgent message to her slumbering sire.

 _Please forgive me_ , she thought, _but I desperately need your guidance. I apologize for breaking the Chain and awakening you ahead of schedule, but I fear we may all be in grave danger. Especially you, my lord, if left in your weakened state, for I believe Lucian is alive and well. Here. Now. In this very city, preparing to strike us during the awakening ceremony. Even more disturbing is that if I am correct, it means that Kraven is in league with him_.

She licked her wounded wrist clean and refastened the gauntlet: the bites would heal quickly. Then she pushed Viktor’s sarcophagus to the rear of the chamber, to the specially designed recovery area. Here lay gleaming medical instruments and a refrigerator full of purloined human blood—recently “liberated” from the Budapest Red Cross in anticipation of the awakening. Selene began hooking up tubes to the copper implements embedded in Viktor’s flesh. Then she attached the tubes to the bags full of blood, suspending each bag from an elaborate overhead rack. She watched as the precious, life-giving fluid began to drip into Viktor’s withered body.

IV. _Running to Stand Still_

Adam looked astonished when Michael dragged him into the examining room—astonished and afraid.

“Michael? Jesus, where’ve you been? Everyone’s been looking for you, and—” He stared the other intern up and down. “Michael, what the hell happened to you?”

Michael began talking—babbling, really—starting with the night of the shootout, telling Adam about the creatures that had attacked him, the man in the elevator, Van Helsing and the Goth woman, the insane car ride, waking up in that hellish place with the crazy blonde and the even crazier dogs—

“…And ever since he bit me, I’ve been having these… these hallucinations. All I know is it feels like my skull is going to explode.”

“Woah—Michael, you’re not making a lot of sense.” Adam did his best to clean some of Michael’s lacerations. While he worked, he asked, “You say these people kidnapped you?”

“They took me hostage! Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“No, no—I believe you! Now here, let me look at that bite.”

Michael sat fidgeting while Adam examined the puncture wound on his shoulder. “Jesus, are you sure a dog didn’t do this?”

Michael grabbed the other intern’s arm. “I said it was a man,” he insisted. “It was a man.”

“All right! Michael—let go of me.” Adam gently prized Michael’s hand off his arm. “Look—I’m going to help you get this all sorted out. Wait here.”

Adam slipped out of the examining room, and Michael waited. He couldn’t return to his flat; the police were watching it. He’d been wandering Budapest furtively all day, having hitched a lift back to the city after escaping that godforsaken mansion. An insane restlessness filled him—he was feverish, his head ached abominably, and his medical knowledge told him he was fighting off a terribly serious infection. By all rights, he should be comatose. Yet he couldn’t keep still; he yearned to run and run and—

And what?

Other changes disturbed him, also: his vision kept shifting into black and white. Everything smelled weird, very intense all of a sudden. The world seemed amplified, too—he could hear the tiniest sounds. He’d never realized until now how much people smelled—how _good_ they smelled—rich and meaty, almost savory—

Adam had been gone too long. Michael hopped up and peered out the window of the examining room. To his vast outrage, he saw Adam marching grimly down the hall, two surly-looking cops behind him.

 _I trusted you!_ Michael thought. Wildly, he looked for an escape. He saw only one: a small window, opening onto a three-story drop.

Michael grabbed a stout trashcan and smashed the thick glass, astonished by his strength. Then he dropped the can, ducked into a nearby closet, and pulled the door shut.

The examining room door burst open. “Where’d he go—oh, shit!” Adam said. “He was right here—the window, he went out the window!” Three sets of footsteps quickly retreated. Michael waited until they were gone before climbing out into the examination room.

He had nowhere to turn: he couldn’t go to the police, and he had his doubts about the US embassy—they’d think he was nuts and hand him over to the cops. Dazed, Michael crept through the hospital corridors and down a flight of back steps, finally exiting through a service entrance near the cafeteria. Back outside, he didn’t know where to go. Night had fallen, and from the heavy dampness in the atmosphere, rain would soon be starting.

He stood shivering out on the street, watching people come and go, so distracted by their scents that he barely noticed the sound of soft footsteps approaching him.

“Michael?”

He spun about, horrified to see Van Helsing standing right there behind him.

“Michael, it’s all right. Come with me.” He smiled, his eyes full of reassurance. “You could stand to wash and change, and you need medical attention.” At Michael’s expression, he added, “I know what’s happened to you—you’ve got a bad infection. You’re hallucinating, aren’t you?”

Dumbly, Michael nodded.

“Violent, medieval hallucinations.”

“How’d you know?” Michael croaked.

“You’ve been infected with a mutated rabies virus. I can explain everything to you, but we really need to get off the street.”

“The hospital—”

“There’s nothing the hospital can do for you. I can help. I’m a doctor—I have special training, and I can keep you safe.” The man’s voice held a soothing, almost hypnotic quality, and Michael desperately wanted to believe him, to trust him. “Now, come with me.”

Numbly, Michael allowed himself to be steered along the street. Van Helsing waited for a traffic signal, then led Michael across a busy intersection.

“Are those—those _things_ still after me?”

“Yes.”

“And the guy who bit me?”

“Still at large.” Van Helsing glanced around the street. “C’mon—it’s only one more block.”

Another vision slammed into Michael, so viscerally real that he felt himself _there_ : he was being whipped by some cruel, sadistic monster—

“Stop,” he gasped, coming back to himself with a painful rush. “Just make it stop!”

Van Helsing had an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Keep walking. You’ll be fine.”

Michael sniffed. He noticed that Van Helsing smelled—odd. Not rich and meaty at all, but light and pleasant. Michael stumbled along, enchanted by that scent. And Van Helsing sounded different, too—although why, Michael couldn’t really say.

“Here we are.” Van Helsing had led Michael into a mostly-empty side street. “Home sweet home.” He paused before something that resembled a wooden blue phone booth; it seemed to give off a queer, humming vibration. Michael frowned, ugly fear blossoming inside him. Van Helsing fished for a key and unlocked the narrow paneled door. “I will warn you—this is going to be a shock.” He steered Michael inside.

So many impressions hit Michael at once, it was like being plunged into another nightmare.

“What the _fuck_?” he gasped. He’d expected to find himself in a closet-sized space. Instead, he was standing in a vast circular chamber of humming and glowing machinery, a space far too big to be contained in that blue phone booth. “What—what—?”

“Welcome to the TARDIS.” Van Helsing pushed him up a metal ramp, babbling words Michael could barely comprehend. “That’s Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. Right now, it’s the safest place for you to be—”

“What—who _are_ you?”

“I’m the Doctor. Now, come back into the medical room and let’s get a look at that bite.”

Michael tried backing away, but Van Helsing had a strong grip on his arm. “What—this thing—it’s—it’s—”

“An alien spacecraft. I know this is a lot to absorb at once, and I’ll explain it all in a moment, but you’ve got some nasty lacerations there, and we really should tend to those before we do anything else.”

Michael gibbered, “You—you’re an alien?”

Van Helsing answered simply, “Yes.”

“Get away from me.” Michael tried shoving, but the alien proved stronger than he looked. “Get the _fuck_ away from me!”

He gave a mighty shove, some insane strength welling up inside him. Van Helsing went flying—literally flying—through the air like a toy. He slammed into one of the weirdly-shaped support posts and slid to the metal floor, where he lay motionless.

Michael stood there, stunned at what he’d done. The word _superhuman_ flashed through his mind. A sense of sickening shame threatened to overwhelm him.

 _Oh God, he’s dead. I killed him_. Michael turned on his heel and ran blindly back down the ramp, out into the night. Rain had started. He whipped around, confirming the exterior of the craft really did look that small. He circled around the box, finding nothing but the brick wall of a building.

 _I’m going crazy_. Michael took the precaution of shutting the door to the blue phone booth; he had enough on his hands without the cops also discovering Van Helsing’s shattered corpse. Then he broke into a panicked run, putting the alley and the alien behind him. Right now, he could think of only one person who might help him, who could understand what was going on, what was happening to him.

 _Selene_.

(ii)

A commotion in the corridor outside the crypt startled Selene. Noiselessly, she exited through a side door and slipped out. For the past fifteen minutes, Soren had been checking on the crypt, but Selene had prudently closed Viktor’s sarcophagus hatch, and from the corridor, everything looked undisturbed.

A gaggle of vampires had gathered in the security room, all of them Kraven’s minions—including the regent himself. Selene realized they were clustered around a security monitor. She could hear a tinny, desperate voice over the intercom.

“I need to see Selene!”

She pushed her way through to the monitor. Erika stood nearby; briefly, their eyes met. Kraven looked ready to explode.

“Is that Michael Corvin?” he demanded.

Selene didn’t answer. She flipped on the microphone and called, “I’ll be right out.”

“What the hell is happening to me?” Michael shouted.

“Wait there.” Selene turned to leave.

Kraven stuck his ugly face in front of hers. “If you go to him, you’ll never be welcome in this house again!”

“Now that Viktor’s awake, we’ll see what he has to say about that.” Selene strode away, leaving the horror-stricken, dumbstruck regent behind her.

(iii)

Michael waited outside. When the gates opened, Selene drove through. The American stood by the security intercom, looking like he’d crawled out of a sewer—filthy and drenched. Selene opened the passenger-side door.

“Get in,” she said tersely.

Michael climbed inside, shutting the door. Selene drove off through the deluge, heading toward the city. “You can never go there again. _Never_. They’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

“Who the hell are you crazy people? What’s happening to me? I feel like my head’s gonna explode!”

Selene reached over and grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, exposing any ugly, infected bite wound. A lycan bite, just as Erika had said.

“Like it or not, you’re in the middle of a war that’s been raging for the better part of a thousand years. A blood feud between vampires and lycans.” He gave her a blank look. “Werewolves. The thing that bit you was a werewolf.”

She watched Corvin process the unthinkable. “I’m—so I’m—”

“Turning into one of _them_.”

“ _Shit_.” He grabbed his head. Selene yearned to comfort him, then furiously shook away that impulse. _Madness_. He was the enemy now. Fate had cruelly thrown them into opposite sides of the ancient conflict.

“So you—you’re a vampire? Everyone in that mansion?”

She didn’t answer. He groaned softly. Then he asked, “That guy—that crazy Van Helsing guy.”

“What about him?”

“He said he’s an alien.”

“He is.”

“What did he—what does he want in all this?”

“Besides a violent death? He’s got some crazy notion that one of our serving girls used to be Madame de Pompadour in her mortal life.”

“Madame who?”

“Oh, never mind,” Selene said wearily. She wondered fleetingly why Michael looked so guilty and miserable. “He’s the least of my worries right now.”

The Jaguar sped toward the city. As the lights of Budapest came into view, Michael asked—with more bravado than he probably felt—“So, what happens if you bite me? I become a vampire?”

“No, you’d die. Nobody has ever survived a bite from both species. The viruses we transmit are deadly. Consider yourself lucky—most people die within an hour of being bitten by an immortal.”

“Lucky,” he mumbled, looking away. “I’m turning into a werewolf, and I should feel lucky about it?” He turned back to her. “So why are you helping me?”

“I’m not helping you!” she roared. “I hunt down and kill your kind! By rights I’d pull over and kill you myself, but I need to keep Lucian from getting his hands on you!”

“Who’s Lucian?”

Selene calmed. “The leader of the lycans—the most powerful lycan who ever lived. We thought he died six hundred years ago, but it looks like he faked his death and went into hiding. He’s been underground all that time, gathering forces, and from what the Doctor said, he’s been experimenting to genetically engineer a new breed of werewolf.”

“Jesus,” Michael muttered.

“And he needs your blood to do that. You’re a descendant of Alexander Corvinus, the first immortal, the father of both vampires and lycans.”

This stunned the young American. “ _Shit!_ ” he swore.

“Now do you see why I need to keep you away from them?”

“Can you blame me for running? I didn’t know what the hell you wanted with me, let alone those what those _things_ wanted!”

She sighed, guiding the car through the streets of downtown Pest. _At least we’re talking_ , she thought ruefully. _That’s an improvement_.

Selene approached the safe house warily, taking a circuitous route to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Then she parked and led Michael up the five flights of steps.

“So, why have I been having these hallucinations?” he asked.

“They’re not hallucinations, they’re memories. Lucian bit you, and when he did, he passed along his memories to you.”

Michael understandably didn’t seem too pleased about that. “What is this place?” he asked, glancing around the squalid interior.

“We use it to interrogate prisoners.” On the topmost landing, Selene unlocked the door and led him inside, flipping on lights. She unshuttered the window and checked the street below.

“Can I ask you something?”

Selene turned from the security monitors, raising an eyebrow.

Michael said, “Do you—you know, kill people and drink their blood?”

“Not for centuries.” Selene understood his curiosity; he probably was afraid she’d make a snack out of him. She opened a refrigerator and fished out a plastic bag, tossing it to him. He caught it effortlessly: lycan reflexes.

“Ziodex Industries?” he read.

“We own it. First artificial plasma. Now this.”

“Cloned blood?” He sounded awestruck.

“Once it’s approved, it’ll be our new cash crop.” She took the bag and put it back inside the refrigerator. From the corner of her eye, she watched Michael examine the medical instruments on the metal tray.

“What are all these for?”

“Lycans are allergic to silver. If we don’t get our bullets out quickly enough, they die during questioning.”

“What do you do with them when you’re done?”

Frankly, Selene told him, “We put the bullets back in.”

Michael processed this, regarding Selene through eyes full of conflict: suspicion and revulsion warring with desire. A dangerous mix. She turned her back to him, fishing for her spare phone, which she now kept tucked into her bodice, set to vibrate. She tried the line for Laszlo’s Bakery, but nobody answered. She let it ring twenty times: nothing.

“Who are you calling?”

Selene didn’t answer, returning the phone to its hiding place. She went and stood by the window, watching the street. Michael dropped into one of the chairs they used for interrogations. She tried not to think about that, tried not to picture Michael bleeding and screaming in pain while merciless Death Dealers tortured him. Until now, she’d never given any thought to the pain of the lycans who’d suffered at her hands.

“Why do you hate them so much?”

The question took her by surprise. Selene had been wondering what must be happening at the mansion. She knew she should get back—she was stalling, delaying the inevitable.

“Fine—don’t answer,” he muttered.

Selene kept her back to him, staring out the window at the nearly-full moon. “Something was in the stable, tearing the horses to pieces,” she said. She’d never shared this memory with anyone, and she couldn’t begin to explain why it felt so right to explain it to Michael. “I couldn’t have saved my mother or my sister. Their screams woke me. My father died outside, trying to fend them off. I stood in the doorway, listening to my nieces scream. Twin girls. Six years old. Butchered like animals.”

“Jesus,” Michael muttered.

“Next thing I knew, I was in his arms,” Selene went on.

“Who?”

“Viktor. The oldest and strongest of our kind. He’d been tracking the lycans for days. The war had spilled over into our house.” She turned back to Michael. “He drove them off and saved me. That night, he made me a vampire. He gave me the strength to avenge my family’s death. Since then, I’ve never looked back.”

Michael gazed at her, no doubt seeing her in an entirely new light. Since they both seemed in a mood for sharing confidences, Selene revealed, “I saw some photos in your apartment.” She leaned forward. “That woman. Was she your wife?”

“My fiancée.” The American didn’t seem at all upset that she’d looked through his personal effects; at this point, he probably considered it a matter of trivial concern. “I tried to swerve, but he hit us anyway… sent the car into the oncoming lane.” Like Selene, Michael had started his story haphazardly, as if in mid-thought. “When I came to, part of the engine was in the front seat. Samantha… she was twisted in this… this horrible position. She must’ve been in shock, because she kept asking me over and over if I was okay.”

Selene couldn’t speak. Her heart ached for him, and she felt a spasm of guilt for having subjected him to two insane rides in her Jaguar.

“If I’d known then what I know now, I might’ve been able to save her, might’ve been able to do something… but she died right there, two minutes before the ambulance arrived.”

Selene couldn’t help another guilty spark: relief that his fiancée was dead and buried in another country. “So why did you come to Hungary?”

“I spent a summer here with my grandfather when I was a kid. When I finished my degree, it seemed like a good place to do my internship. I figured, what the hell? I cut my losses and came over here. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Thought I could put it all behind me… move on.”

Selene studied his handsome, troubled face. “And have you?” she asked. When he met her gaze, she added, “Moved on?”

He gazed back at her evenly. “Have you?”

Selene couldn’t answer.

They both were quiet for a while. Then Michael asked, “So, who started this war?”

“They did,” she said. “At least that’s what we’ve always been led to believe.” She thought of the defaced book in the library. What story had those lost pages told?

“You believe that?”

“I’m not so sure,” she admitted. Selene glanced at her watch. “Almost five. I should go.” She hated to leave. She enjoyed talking to Corvin—she liked his intelligence, his obvious compassion, and she’d felt comfortable—too comfortable—unburdening her darkest secret to him. Then she angrily reminded herself that she didn’t have time for insane adolescent infatuations.

“What about me?”

“Viktor will know what to do.”

Michael looked less than reassured to have his future in the hands of a powerful vampire he’d never met.

“I’ll come back tomorrow night.”

“No way,” he said. “I’m not staying here myself!”

“It’s the safest place,” she insisted, and his face took on an incredulous expression, like he’d heard that somewhere before and didn’t believe it. Possibly he was thinking of the mansion, how she’d said he’d be safe there, too.

Michael tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness must have hit him. He slumped back against the chair. “Fine,” he mumbled.

Selene turned and strolled back over to him, staring into his eyes. Hating herself for what she had to do next, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

He responded immediately, hungrily, as if he’d been longing to kiss her for some time. Selene felt hopelessly stirred by the contact, even as she reached for the manacles that hung from the metal chair.

 _Click!_ Selene stepped away. She’d cuffed him by one wrist to the chair.

“What the hell?” he grunted, staring at her with big, wounded eyes.

“When the full moon rises tomorrow night, you will change, you will kill, and you will feed.” She spoke coldly, mechanically. “You won’t be able to stop it. If I don’t confine you here, you’ll be a danger to everyone in this city. Trust me, Michael. This is for your own good.” She ejected the mag from one of her guns, showing him the silver bullet inside, then popped the mag back into the gun and handed him the weapon.

“What’s this for?”

“That’s enough silver to keep you prevent the transformation. At least for a few hours. If I don’t get back in time tomorrow night, do yourself a favor.” She slipped out of the safe house, locking the door behind her. She hated doing this to him, but it was the only way. With a heavy heart, Selene hurried down the five flights of stairs. The mansion, and Viktor’s judgement, awaited.

(iv)

She knew from the moment she walked in through the mansion’s front door that word of Viktor’s awakening had spread through the gathered vampires like wildfire. Incredulous, outraged stares followed her as she stormed through the grand salon.

Kraven tried to intercept her in the hallway leading to the crypt.

“How could you do this to me?” he roared. “Embarrass me like this! The whole coven knows I have plans for us!”

“There is no ‘us!’” she spat.

Kraven dragged her into an alcove, pushing her against the wall. “You will go before Viktor and tell him _exactly_ what I tell you to say! Is that in any way unclear?”

Selene responded by slamming the heel of her hand into his nose, dropping him to one knee. She ran down the hall and into the crypt, the doors sliding shut behind her. As the quiet of the crypt muffled external noises, her adrenaline-fueled sense of daring began to subside, leaving in its wake uneasiness and fear.

 _Courage_ , she told herself. Whatever happened, she’d face it like a warrior, not a sniveling child.

Viktor sat in the Elders’ throne, regal despite the profusion of red lines snaking down from the blood bags overhead. He’d progressed from mummified to skeletal—still not his usual magnificent self, but at least not as horrific as he’d been earlier. Trembling slightly, Selene knelt on the tiled floor before him.

He made an impatient noise. Then, gently, “Come closer, child.”

Selene stood and stepped closer to the throne. “I’ve been lost without you, my lord,” she began. “Hounded by Kraven and his never-ending infatuation.”

Viktor’s face twisted into a rictus, a gruesome approximation of a smile. “It’s the oldest story in the book,” he said. “He desires the one thing he cannot have.”

Selene silently thanked the gods that Viktor at least understood that.

“Now tell me,” he said, “why have you come to believe that Lucian still lives?”

“But I’ve given you all the proof you need!”

“Incoherent thoughts and images,” he scoffed. “Nothing more. Which is why an awakening is always performed by an Elder. You do not possess the necessary skills!”

“But I did see Lucian!” Selene insisted. “I shot him! You must believe me!”

“The Chain has never been broken,” Viktor said, eyes flashing dangerously. “Not once in fourteen centuries, not since we Elders first began to leapfrog through time. One awake, two asleep—that is the way of it! It is Marcus’s turn to reign, not mine!”

Selene struggled to keep her composure in the face of his anger. “But I had no choice,” she argued. “The coven is in danger, and Michael is—”

He broke into her sentence with a harsh, disgusted noise. Selene shriveled inside, realizing that when it came to Michael—indeed, any lycan—there would be no arguing reason with Viktor.

“Ah, yes,” he said contemptuously. “The lycan.”

“Please,” she begged, “allow me to get the proof you require!”

“I will leave it to Kraven to collect the proof—if there is any to be found,” Viktor decided.

“How can you trust him over me?”

“Because,” said Viktor, “he is not the one who has been tempted by an animal!” Selene fought back a hot flush: of course, Viktor would have sensed her feelings for Michael when he drank her blood.

Softening his tone, Viktor said, “I love you… like a daughter, but you’ve left me with no choice. These rules are in place for a good reason, and they are the only reason we have survived for so long.” Becoming stern and harsh once again, he pronounced, “You will not be shown an ounce of leniency! When Amelia arrives, the Council will convene to decide your fate. You have broken the Chain and the Covenant! You must be judged!”

(v)

Seemingly the entire coven watched, thrilled and bitchy, as the disgraced Death Dealer was marched like a criminal through the grand salon and up the stairs. Selene kept her head tilted forward so that her hair would conceal her humiliated expression. Surprisingly, she had little fear for herself: she’d been a Death Dealer for so long that the prospect of her own demise no longer troubled her. But she loathed the thought of Kraven having this victory, of the Elders’ misplaced trust in him bringing about the end of the entire vampire species—or at the very least, leaving the coven permanently under Kraven’s power.

Of course he couldn’t resist the urge to gloat as he locked her in her room. “You should have listened to me and stayed out of this,” he said. “Now I’ll be lucky if I can persuade the Council to spare your life!”

Facing him through the open doorway, Selene asked coldly, “Tell me, did you have the nerve to cut the skin from Lucian’s arm, or did he do it for you?”

The stunned expression on his face made up for almost everything—her humiliation, even her probable execution.

Unwilling to let Selene have the last shot, he snarled, “Mark my words, soon you’ll be seeing things my way!” And before she had a chance to say anything more, he slammed the door shut, ordering Soren, “ _Nobody_ opens that, do you understand me?”

Selene listened to the retreating footsteps, Kraven barking to his minions, “As soon as the sun goes down, find that lycan! I want his head on a platter!”

The day passed with infernal slowness. Selene worried endlessly about Michael, even more than she worried about the coven. He was a complete innocent, drawn into this morass for no other reason than the DNA he carried in his cells.

She also wondered why Viktor had made no mention of the extraterrestrial. He hadn’t included in her list of offenses the fact that she’d allowed a member of an unknown species into the mansion and had given it access to the vampires’ history. But perhaps those transgressions paled in comparison to her breaking the Chain of coven leadership and violating the Covenant stricture against fraternizing with lycans. Or possibly Selene’s memories were so jumbled and incoherent that Viktor had been unable to tease out her encounter with the alien. Maybe he just didn’t care.

 _Obviously, I wasn’t going to ask him_ , she ruminated grimly. Viktor had been so angry that Selene had dared not broach the subject.

And now Kraven was going to lead the search for Lucian. Selene scoffed at the very idea. _Fat lot of good that will do_ , she fumed. _Kraven will find exactly what he wants to find, and Viktor, because of his blind prejudice against lycans, will believe him_.

With Soren outside the door, she couldn’t use her spare mobile: he’d hear everything. The disposable cellular hadn’t so much as twitched all day, and it lacked text-messaging capacity. Selene wondered in despair if the lycans had detected the extraterrestrial and destroyed him. _Pity_ , she thought. _He would have made a valuable ally_.

More than anything, she dreaded what would happen if Kraven’s men searched the safe house and found Michael chained up there, trapped and defenseless.

(vi)

Night had fallen. Selene paced, imagining the activity outside her room. Khan would have left to greet Amelia’s train. In a matter of hours, the Council would convene to hear Selene’s case. She wondered if she’d be allowed to speak in her own defense.

Then the lights went out. She blinked: an independent generator supplied the mansion’s electricity. There had never been a blackout for as long as Selene could remember. _Are we under attack?_ Her heart began to pound when, all over the building, an alarm blared loudly.

“Intruders!” a voice called, and she heard the thunder of running footsteps as every Death Dealer in the mansion responded to the threat. “The perimeter sensor’s been tripped!”

 _The fence!_ Selene thought, wondering if the Doctor, in his carelessness, had set off the alarm. Then she realized the guard outside her door had abandoned his post, and she experienced a stab of hope.

A moment later, a key rattled in the lock, and Erika slipped inside.

“There’s not a lot of time.” She handed a heavy leather pouch to Selene: two guns and a dozen clips of ammunition. “Here.” She tossed the Death Dealer a set of car keys.

“You set off the alarm?”

“I’ve been hiding all day—Kraven knows I’ve been spying on him.”

 _Viktor_ , Selene realized. _He saw that in my memories, too, and tipped off Kraven_. Again, she felt anger: Erika was another innocent pawn in this ghastly mess. “You’d better come with me.” Selene grabbed her leather duster and tossed an extra coat to the younger vampire. “It’s not safe for you here any more—you’ll be a convenient scapegoat for both Viktor and Kraven. Come on.”

One at a time, they jumped out of Selene’s window: in the distance, she heard baying dogs and the yells of Death Dealers. They stayed flattened against the mansion wall for a moment, waiting for their chance to flee unseen.

“Feel like living dangerously?” Selene asked under her breath.

“Not really,” Erika admitted.

“Well, you’re going to, so get used to it.”

When she was sure the lawn lay empty, the two women bolted with superhuman speed across the grass to Selene’s Jaguar—thankfully, still parked on the sweeping gravel drive.

“Buckle up.” Selene started the engine and gunned the car toward the main gate, hitting the remote on the dashboard. The tall metal gates swung outward—thankfully, nobody had thought to disable her car. They roared onto the country road at top speed. Erika groaned softly and clutched the door handle.

“Tell me what you know,” Selene ordered.

“Kraven sent Soren and his men after Amelia. Khan was furious.”

An alarm went off in Selene’s head. Kahn _always_ fetched Elders from the train station—always; it was almost his sacred duty, as chief of the Death Dealers. _Kraven’s planning an assassination!_ The hairs on the back of Selene’s neck stood up. She pressed down on the gas pedal, prompting another whimper from her passenger.

“Sorry about the speed,” she said, fishing out her spare mobile. “I know you’re not used to traveling in cars.” She thumbed in the number of Khan’s cellular.

“Yes?” Even that one word conveyed the depths of his anger and worry.

“It’s me,” she said rapidly. “I can’t talk long. Soren’s going to assassinate Amelia. Call the train and let her guards know they’re walking into a trap—whatever they do, they mustn’t stop the train at Nyugati Station.”

“How do you know—”

“Khan, you _must_ believe me!”

“Look, where are you—?”

Selene disconnected. She turned back to Erika. “What else?”

The blonde woman was staring at her, mouth agape. Finally, she managed, “Kraven ordered me to stay close to Viktor, to wait on him, and to report back to Kraven everything Viktor said and did. I did as he said, but then I overheard Viktor telling Kraven that you’d ordered me to spy on him. Kraven told his men to find me—he was yelling that he was going to throw me out into the sunlight.” Erika shuddered. “So I hid—there’s lots of places in the mansion Kraven doesn’t even know about—the advantages of being a servant. When the dojo was empty, I stole those guns and your keys, and I waited until sundown before I tripped the alarm.”

“Good thinking.” Selene couldn’t help admiring Erika’s resourcefulness. Maybe the Doctor was right; maybe there was more to this tarted up domestic than met the eye.

“Kraven also knows Michael is a lycan.”

“I figured as much,” Selene sighed.

“After you said Viktor was awake, he and Soren went into the crypt—they were arguing about whether you were telling the truth or bluffing. Soren said he’d reviewed the security tapes of Michael jumping over the fence, and he said it looked like Michael couldn’t possibly be human if he could outrun the dogs and climb over the gates like that. Then Kraven started yelling, and that’s when Viktor came rumbling out.” Erika giggled. “You should’ve seen the looks on their faces, Selene. It was priceless.”

“Not nearly as priceless as when I confronted Kraven about him not really killing Lucian.”

Erika goggled at her. “He didn’t?”

“No. Lucian is alive and well, collaborating with Kraven on some scheme—probably to assassinate the Elders and take over both covens.”

Erika looked not only stunned but terrified, and Selene could only imagine how frightening it must be for someone so sheltered to have her little world—the only world she could consciously remember—shattered.

Gulping, Erika quavered, “So, what are you going to do?”

Selene felt torn. On the one hand, she knew she should try to protect Amelia, but Soren had too much of a head start. Besides, Amelia had a cabal of Death Dealers to protect her, and hopefully, Khan would have alerted the train of the danger by now. Corvin, by contrast, had no one.

“I’m going to check on Michael,” she decided. “And with luck, collect some evidence to clear myself.” She regarded the younger vampire, taking measure of her courage. “I might need your help.”

“You’re a Death Dealer; I’m chambermaid,” Erika reminded her. “What help could I possibly be to you?”

“You’ve been useful so far,” Selene admitted. “And remember, you have a stake in this, too. If Kraven succeeds in overthrowing the Elders and staring a new regime, you and I are both going to be on his shit list. So your life might depend on whatever help you can give me tonight.”

Erika processed this in silence as the Jag roared toward Budapest.

(vii)

In less than an hour, she’d reached the city, a personal best record that would have pleased Selene if she’d had time to think on such trivial matters. She brought the car to a screeching halt outside the safe house. Behind a thick cloud cover, the moon was rising, and she had no idea if she’d find Michael in his human form, or already transformed into a slathering beast.

Erika staggered out of the passenger seat and retched semi-digested blood into the gutter.

“Come on, come on,” Selene urged her, and they raced into the building, tearing up the flights of steps with blinding speed. They’d reached the third landing, when Selene heard voices and footsteps below. _Lycans!_ They weren’t even bothering with stealth. She grabbed Erika’s arm, literally dragging the younger vampire up to the top landing. Hands shaking, Selene unlocked the safe house door, shoved Erika inside, and threw the bolts.

“Selene?” Michael mumbled, thankfully still in his human form.

“We need to leave,” she said, moving rapidly to unlock him. Behind her, Erika began hissing quietly. Michael responded with a rumbling growl in his chest, much the same noise the Rottweilers made. “Stop it,” Selene barked. “Both of you.”

A barrage of gunfire tore through the door of the apartment. Michael and Erika ducked. Selene returned fire, then spun around and used her gun to shatter one of the tall windows.

“Michael, jump! Go on!” she shouted. “Jump!” The lycans kept firing, and Selene yelled, “Go on, go, go, go!”

He’d climbed into the window casement, and when he saw the drop, turned back to Selene with an incredulous expression.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he screamed.

The door burst open. Bullets flew, and Michael jumped. Erika had taken cover behind the heavy titanium interrogation chair.

Selene ruthlessly picked off lycans one by one; they’d had the advantage of numbers, but she had the advantage of superior training.

A new sound penetrated her mind: a car’s motor, the screech of tires, Michael yelling in protest.

“Erika, go help him!” Selene barked, taking aim at the last two lycans.

Erika sprinted across the floor and leaped out the window.

(vii)

As she descended, Erika heard a strange mechanical rumbling, a grinding noise unlike anything she’d heard before. The grinding resolved into a few loud thumps. Before she could even begin to process the meaning of these sounds, she’d landed in a crouch—not on the pavement, but on top of some blue object. A light flashed beside her.

Then she heard the creak of a door opening, and a man’s voice calling out, “Hullo, what’s all that about?”

Noiselessly, Erika sprang off the thing and landed on the street in front of the Doctor. An enormous smile spread across his face, taking her completely aback: nobody in the coven had ever smiled at her like that. “Nice trick!” he praised. “That must come in handy!”

“Where’s Michael?” Erika stared down the alleyway just in time to see the red tail lights of a car flashing around the corner. “Shit! Selene won’t like this!”

They both flinched reflexively at the sound of gunfire overhead. Then there was silence.

“Come on,” Erika said, grabbing the Doctor’s arm. They raced around to the front of the building and inside. An acrid smell of gun smoke hung in the air, the steps littered with glowing blue bullets. Erika winced, trying not to look at them. “Selene?” she called.

“Where’s Michael?” Selene was coming down the stairs, dragging something heavy behind her, something that thumped like a large bag of wet laundry. Erika’s eyes flashed at the rancid scent of lycan blood.

“Someone grabbed him,” she said. “It looked like a police cruiser.”

“It’s not the police,” the Doctor provided. “It’s two lycans disguised as Budapest cops. They’ve been following him around.”

“You two go see if you can find him,” Selene ordered. “I need to get this one here back to the mansion.” Erika realized the lycan was still alive, groaning as Selene dragged him mercilessly down the steps. He’d been wounded with silver and so couldn’t transform into a werewolf, for which Erika was deeply grateful.

“That’s Singe,” the Doctor said. “The lycan who’s been running those experiments on the descendants of Corvinus.”

The male sneered up at him. “You,” he rasped. “I know your scent! You were in my lab, you sneaking—ugh!” He grunted when Selene kicked him in the hip.

“Shut up,” she said remorselessly. She’d shackled his hands behind his back and now began dragging him out to the Jag.

“What are you going to do with him?” the Doctor asked.

“Bring him back to the mansion,” Selene said. “He’s going to tell Viktor everything he knows about what Kraven and Lucian are up to, and he’s going to tell him about the lycans’ genetics project, and if he’s cooperative, he’ll get a merciful death. If he doesn’t cooperate… well, he’s going to be at Viktor’s mercy.”

The Doctor didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest when Selene threw Singe into the back seat. She straightened up and turned to the extraterrestrial. “Where the hell have _you_ been?”

“Unconscious for the past twenty-four hours, thanks to your boyfriend.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t think he realizes his own strength.”

“He’ll learn fast if this cloud cover breaks,” Selene worried, staring at the sky. Erika observed a glow behind the dark clouds: the moon was full. She hated being outside the shelter of the mansion on a night when lycans would be so powerful.

“You can’t go back there until this is cleared up,” Selene apologized. “Doctor, can you keep her safe?”

“Count on it,” he said, taking Erika’s hand.

“Good.” She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “If I can, I’ll call you after Viktor’s heard what this one has to say.” The door shut, and the Jag roared away into the darkness.

“Where should we go?” Erika said, looking up and around, feeling terribly frightened now that Selene was gone.

“In here.” The Doctor led her around the side of the building, back to the blue box. “We’re going to look for Michael.”

“In _this_?” Erika’s vampiric senses detected a lot of humming and vibrating emanating from the seemingly simple object. She looked up, reading the lettering over the door: POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX. “What’s all that noise?”

“The engines.” He opened one of the doors. “Come on inside, and please try to stay calm. Michael didn’t react very well, I’m afraid.”

Erika’s breath caught when she crossed the threshold. “It’s huge!” she blurted. “But it’s so small on the outside, like a phone booth!”

He beamed happily, and she realized he was proud to be showing off this thing—whatever it was—to her.

“Welcome to the TARDIS,” he said grandly. “That’s an acronym for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space.”

Slowly, Erika circled around the room, staring at the profusion of unfamiliar things. The centerpiece of the room was some kind of complex machine surmounted by a glowing blue column that extended up to the ceiling. Underfoot, more lights glowed up from beneath a metal grillework floor. Yet the thing didn’t seem wholly mechanical, like Selene’s car—Erika realized it had an organic component, too.

“What do you think?” the Doctor asked awkwardly.

“It’s… it’s incredible. Like something on television, only better. More real.” She didn’t try to touch anything—she didn’t dare—but she could sense that this place was breathing and responsive, not an inanimate object. “It’s alive,” she stated.

“Good for a start,” he grinned. “No screams, no tears, no obscenities.” He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, watching her reactions.

Erika started laughing. “Me. A serving girl. Inside something like this. It should be one of the Elders or Council members.”

“Why?” he said.

“I’m not important enough.”

He came and put an arm around her. Erika leaned into him, feeling an extraordinary sense of comfort. “Of course you’re important.” She stared up into his eyes. They were warm and brown, and although she barely knew him, she found it impossible not to trust eyes like those.

She smelled his coat. “You’re not human.”

The Doctor exhaled, a funny laughing noise. “Here we go again. No, I’m not human.”

“What are you?”

“A Time Lord. An alien species.”

“You’re from another planet?”

“Yes.”

More nervous, incredulous laughter bubbled up out of Erika. “Is that a joke?”

“Well, look at you!” he teased. “You’re a vampire, and you’re asking me if I’m for real?”

“So what—what does this thing do? It wasn’t there in the alley when I jumped, and then suddenly I was landing on top of it.”

“It appears and disappears anywhere I want it to.” He looked as shyly pleased as a boy showing off a new bicycle to a girl he fancied. “It travels in space and time.”

Erika stared at him. “It travels in _time?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Can I go back and see… my own past?”

“No, that’s dangerous,” he said gently. “It’s not a good idea to cross your own time line.” He went to one of the control panels and began pressing knobs and levers, twisting things and flipping switches. Erika heard once again that incredible grinding noise, and the floor began to shake under her feet.

“What’s happening?” she shouted in alarm. She clutched the nearest support pillar.

“We’re taking a short hop!” he called. “We’re going to find Michael!”

The grinding ceased. The Doctor hurried to the door and peered out, Erika behind him. Her keen eyes pierced the gloom, and she wrinkled her nose at the fusty scent.

“Where are we?”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” he said. “We’re in the metro tunnels. I know the way into the lycans’ base.”

“But they’ll kill us!”

“Not if they don’t catch us they won’t.” The Doctor slipped outside, and uneasily, Erika followed.

“Do you have a gun?” she whispered.

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“I never travel armed.”

“But what will you do if—”

“Shh.” He put a finger to her lips, and Erika flushed at the contact. “They’re gearing up for some battle—the place is mostly empty. We’re going to find Michael and leave. It’ll be all right—I promise you.”

“But we—”

To her astonishment and pleasure, he kissed her once, on the mouth. “Reinette,” he whispered. “I lost you once already. I’m not losing you again.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “But I’m taking a lot on faith.”

“You can trust me.” He took her hand, their fingers lacing together, and led her down the dim tunnel.

V. _Exit_

Selene didn’t bother with subtlety. This occasion called for brazen arrogance, so she pulled the Jag straight up to the main doors, hopped out of the car, and began dragging the semi-conscious lycan scientist up the wide granite steps.

One of Soren’s men was on duty, and he blurted out, “Holy shit!”

Fangs bared, eyes aglow, she snarled, “Get out of my way!”

Terrified, he jumped back as Selene roared like hellfire into the grand salon. Crowds of twittering socialites and dignitaries leaped away, hissing and growling at the presence of a lycan in their midst. Selene didn’t pause; she kept dragging the scientist across the parquet floor and down the corridor to the left, toward the throne room. As she approached the double door, she could hear Kraven’s whine as he reported her latest transgression to Viktor.

“…I sent for Selene, not you.”

“She’s defied your orders and fled the mansion, my lord,” Kraven mumbled.

“Your incompetence is becoming most taxing!” Viktor snarled.

“It’s not my fault!” Kraven protested. “She’s become obsessed—thinks I’m at the core of some ridiculous conspiracy!”

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. “And here’s my proof!” Selene strode into the chamber, flinging Singe in front of her. The wounded lycan slid wildly across the Italian tile, coming to an ignominious halt at Viktor’s feet. For the second time that night, Selene had the satisfaction of seeing impotent fury on Kraven’s face.

(ii)

Selene unlocked the handcuffs from Singe’s wrists and chained him to the tiled floor. “Now,” she ordered, “I want you to tell him everything about your little experiment.” When he remained silent, Selene grabbed his shoulder, brutally crushing bones. He howled in pain.

“All right, all right!” he gasped. Selene lessened the pressure, but she kept her hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve been searching for someone with a special trait… a direct descendant of Alexander Corvinus…”

 _The Doctor was right_ , Selene though, keeping her reaction well-hidden.

“Hungarian… a warlord who came to power in the early seasons of the fifth century, only to watch a plague ravage his entire fiefdom.” The lycan had picked up speed, and in some strange way, Selene realized, it pleased him to share this knowledge with a captive audience—even his enemies. “Corvinus was the only survivor. His body was able to shape the illness, somehow—to mold it to his benefit. He became the first true immortal.”

The lycan trailed off, and Selene tightened her grip on his wounded shoulder.

“Gaaah!” He quickly resumed the story. “And years later, he fathered at least two sons who inherited this same trait.”

A mocking smile touched Viktor’s face. “The three sons of the Corvinus clan.” His tone grew almost sing-song. “One bitten by bat, one by wolf, one to walk the lonely road of mortality as a human—it’s a ridiculous legend. Nothing!”

 _Not a legend_ , Selene thought coldly. _It’s the truth, and you know it_.

“That may be,” the lycan countered, “but our two species share a common ancestor, and the mutation of the original virus is directly linked to his bloodline.”

Viktor nodded to the ornate bronze hatch beneath which Marcus still slumbered. “There is a descendant of Corvinus lying _there_ , not three feet from you!”

 _Markus Corvinus_. The Doctor had been right about that, too. Selene wished she’d taken this ancient history a little more seriously, a lot sooner.

“Yes,” Singe nodded, “but he’s already a vampire. We needed a pure source. Untainted. An exact duplicate of the original virus, hidden away in the genetic code of his human descendants, passed along in its latent form down through the ages… all the way to Michael Corvin.”

Selene’s heart dropped at the mention of Michael.

“For years we’ve been trying to combine the bloodlines,” Singe went on. “And for years we failed. It was useless. Even at the cellular level, our species seemed destined to destroy each other. That is, until we found Michael. The Corvinus strain allows for a perfect union—a triple-celled platelet, which holds unspeakable power.”

Viktor looked revolted. “There can be no union,” he almost whispered. “And to speak of it is blasphemy!”

“We’ll see,” Singe smirked. “Once Lucian has injected himself—”

“Lucian is dead,” Viktor hissed.

Singe treated him to a nasty, twisted smile. “According to whom?”

Selene’s head snapped around. Kraven had vanished.

(iii)

Viktor rose slowly from the throne. The massive infusion of blood had done him well, and he’d returned fully to his regal splendor. Despite her misgivings with him, Selene was glad of his presence, glad he’d finally realized the depth of Kraven’s evil. All doubts were swept aside now, and she knew that she’d done the right thing to awaken him. She also could see in her sire’s eyes admiration of her courage, of her willingness to accept punishment and even death to expose the regent’s treachery.

“I can assure you, my child,” he said. “Kraven will pay with his life.”

From the floor, Singe began to chuckle, a horrible raspy sound. “Soon this house will lie in ruins,” he declared.

“Not before you,” Selene growled, pulling a gun and pressing it to his temple.

“No, wait!” the scientist babbled. “You, and you alone will know the truth of this!” He gasped quietly, then said, “If Lucian acquires the blood of a pure-born and the blood of a powerful Elder—like Amelia—” He glanced slyly at Viktor. “Or yourself—and injects it along with Michael’s blood—”

“Abomination,” Viktor whispered.

The scientist cackled, his tone dreamy and visionary. “Half vampire, half lycan, but stronger than both!”

 _I was right_ , Selene realized, _but it’s worse than I thought_. Instead of creating an uber-werewolf, Singe and Lucian would create a new, hybrid species. In a nightmarish vision, she imagined every one of Lucian’s werewolves, injected with Michael’s blood. All they’d need then would be the blood of one vampire, and they’d have every ingredient they needed for an army of lycan-vampire hybrids.

She doubted if Kraven knew anything about these plans. The possibility of a hybrid was the ace Lucian held in his hand. Now she could see more fully the scope of their collaboration. Kraven needed Lucian and his werewolves to murder the Elders and seize command of both covens. And the hybrid warriors would protect the lycans, so that Kraven could never turn against them. It would be the strangest of peace treaties, Selene thought—more like an uneasy détente—but it would satisfy both men. _What odd bedfellows_. And poor Michael was caught up in this unholy alliance, his blood now more precious to the lycans than all the oil in the Middle East.

A commotion from outside the crypt brought her back to the present. She heard voices, growing louder, one of them distinctly Khan’s. A surge of hope went through her.

A stunning woman in a gown of pearl gray silk and velvet swept into the crypt with the haughty bearing of a queen. Ebony hair was pulled back and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, setting off magnificent white shoulders to their best advantage. Selene stepped back, awed: Amelia had arrived in grand style. _She’s safe_. Selene’s legs went weak with relief, and a surge of triumph went through her at having denied Kraven this victory.

“Amelia!” Viktor said, moving to greet his female counterpart, but she held up her hands in a warding gesture, her expression like a black stormcloud. “What is it?”

“We were almost ambushed by _your_ regent’s men!” she thundered.

Viktor stared at Khan, appalled. “What is the meaning of this?” he hissed.

“Soren and his men were waitin’ at Nyugati Station with a cadre of lycans,” Khan reported grimly. “We called ahead to Amelia’s guard, and they stopped the train two miles outside the station. We took Soren by surprise, killed his accomplices, and dragged him before Amelia.”

“He confessed his crimes,” she said viciously, eyes flashing blue. “And paid for them with his life! Now where is that infernal Kraven?”

“He’s probably fled by now,” Selene offered quietly. “I would imagine he’s on his way back to Lucian—the only safe harbor left to him.” When Amelia’s elegant head turned in her direction, Selene grabbed Singe by the shoulder and said, “Lucian is still alive, my lady. This lycan just confessed to us a plot to create a vampire-werewolf hybrid—using your blood.”

Amelia’s enraged, imperious gaze turned down to the wretched creature on the floor. “And Kraven was involved in that?”

“In league with Lucian for almost two hundred years,” Singe cackled. “He planned to overthrow you three and take control of both covens. Lucian aided him, in exchange for a peace treaty with the lycans.” The scientist convulsed with mirth. “But now that he has Michael Corvin, he doesn’t need Kraven’s help. Soon he’ll have an unstoppable legion of hybrids!”

Viktor had heard enough. He swept forward and with one mighty swing of his arm, crushed the lycan’s skull to pulp. Singe’s lifeless body toppled to the tiles, blood gushing from his mouth like a torrent of vomit.

As if they were alone in the chamber, he turned to Selene. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Fear not, my child,” he whispered. “Absolution will be yours the moment you kill the descendant of Corvinus, this… Michael.”

He turned to Amelia. “Come,” he said, taking her arm. “Let us prepare for battle.”

Her eyes gleamed at the prospect. “Viktor,” she said, as they strode away, “why have you been awakened…?” Their voices trailed off as they vanished down the hallway.

The Death Dealers hurried out of the crypt, heading for the dojo to arm themselves. Khan lingered behind, turning to Selene.

“Thanks for that tip,” he said quietly. “You saved Amelia’s life, and the lives of everyone on the Council.”

“Yes,” she said bleakly, staring ahead into nothingness. One thought swirled around and around in her mind. _Viktor expects me to kill Michael_.

God help her. _I can’t do it_.

“Come on,” said Khan, gently taking her by the arm. “Come on, we have a battle to get ready for.”

They hurried out of the crypt, leaving the lycan’s bleeding body on the floor behind them.

(iv)

Michael blinked awake. He tried to move but found himself immobilized, bound and handcuffed to some sort of upright metal examining table. He tried to protest and found a gag shoved in his mouth.

 _Shit_. After discovering, incredibly, that he could drop from a height of six stories and land like a cat on his feet, he’d been grabbed by two lycans disguised as cops and chained up in the back of an ersatz police cruiser. Then the moonlight had come streaming through the car’s windows, prompting the most horrific pain Michael could have imagined—bones shifting and cracking, skin and muscles stretching. Finally, the cops had pulled over, jabbing him with a hypodermic. Blackness had followed.

As his vision cleared, Michael realized he was in some kind of laboratory—a crude, filthy hovel, more of a meat locker than a place of scientific inquiry. A large bulletin board covered one wall, every inch of cork taken up by overlapping slips of paper bearing names and photos. Many of the names had been crossed out. And at the very top of the board, like a star on a Christmas tree, was the name Selene had mentioned.

Alexander Corvinus.

Michael’s gaze moved down uneasily, to the right, then the left, finally locating one name circled in red ink.

Michael Corvin.

 _Shit_ , he thought again. _Selene wasn’t kidding._ He remembered Van Helsing’s warning about the lycans following him. _Why the hell didn’t I pay more attention to him? Now he’s dead. He might’ve helped me—maybe he even knew a cure for this, and I’ll never find out_.

A man suddenly emerged from behind some plastic flaps. Michael recognized him as the lycan who’d attacked him that night in the elevator, the man whose bite had made Michael a werewolf. He watched with trepidation as the lycan rubbed an alcohol wipe on the crease of his elbow and slipped an empty hypodermic needle into one of his veins. Behind the gag, Michael grumbled in protest.

“Excuse me—where are my manners?” The man spoke with a British accent, and for a lycan, he seemed remarkably civilized—certainly moreso than the pair of thugs who’d manhandled Michael earlier. He withdrew the needle from Michael’s arm and reached up to remove the gag.

“What’re you doing?” Michael asked hoarsely.

“Bringing an end to this genocidal conflict.” Grimacing slightly, the man began injecting himself with Michael’s blood. “I’m Lucian, by the way.”

“ _You’re_ Lucian?” Michael blurted out.

“I see you’ve heard about me.”

“I’ve heard you’re the head of the werewolves. I was also warned you need my DNA for some crazy experiment to make a vampire-werewolf hybrid.”

Lucian’s gray eyes went dark. “I should never underestimate the vampires’ intelligence-gathering. I assume the female Death Dealer told you all this?”

Michael didn’t answer; it seemed a bad time to bring Van Helsing into the mix.

“How come I haven’t… wolfed out? I was starting to change when your goons grabbed me.”

“They gave you an enzyme to stop the change.” Lucian smiled slightly. “Someday, when you’re old and powerful enough, you’ll be able to change forms at will.”

 _Like I should be happy about that?_ Michael chafed against his bonds. “I need to get back.”

Lucian said kindly, “There’s no going back, Michael. The vampires will kill you on sight for being what you are. A lycan. One of us.” His gaze grew steely. “You _are_ one of us, Michael.”

“Thanks to you.”

Lucian didn’t apologize. He finished injecting himself, unperturbed by the American’s accusing eyes.

“I had nothing to do with this war of yours,” Michael stated.

Lucian’s eyes flicked up. “ _My_ war?”

For the first time, Michael noticed the odd pendant hanging around Lucian’s neck: almost circular in shape, a tiny green stone set at the center of an even-armed cross of Celtic knotwork. Michael found the ornament surprisingly beautiful, almost too delicate for a lycan to be wearing. He’d have expected lycans to sport something bigger, uglier, perhaps more Satanic-looking. _I’ve seen that pendant before_ , Michael realized. As he meditated on this puzzle, a wave of exhaustion rolled over him, and he passed out.

(v)

_The dungeon. The Death Dealer with the silver-studded whips. The fair-haired woman chained to the wooden post, a pendant of Celtic knotwork hanging about her neck. The howls of lycans forced to watch the gruesome torture session._

_The great doors opened, and a group of lordly vampires swept into the dungeon, led by a tall man with cold, imperious eyes. He regarded the lycan chained to the floor, the woman chained to the post, then turned and left, the heavy doors booming as they closed. A moment later, a shutter in the ceiling began to open, letting in a dazzling shaft of yellow sunlight. It struck the woman chained to the post, and she began to shriek as her flesh burst into flame._

_The lycan reared back, screaming, **“Sonja!”** He watched, horrified, as the sunlight reduced the woman’s body to a pile of smoking cinders._

_Later. The great doors opened again. The tall, lordly vampire entered, reaching down to retrieve the pendant from the woman’s ashes. He regarded the trinket with an expression that almost approximated grief. But the overhead window had been left unshuttered, and now cool moonlight streamed in. A heartbeat later, the lycan had transformed into a werewolf, snapping the chains that held him bound to the floor. With a snarling pounce, he leaped at the tall vampire and knocked the pendant from his hand. The werewolf sprang over, grabbed the pendant, and leaped up. Glass shattered as he broke through a window, escaping into the night._

(vi)

Michael blinked awake, staring once again at that medallion. He recalled what Selene had said about Lucian’s memories, and the pieces came together at once.

“They forced you to watch her die.”

Lucian glanced up, startled.

“Sonja. I saw it happen, as if I was there.”

Lucian glanced away. Physically, he didn’t seem that much older than Michael himself, maybe thirty-five or forty. His eyes and posture, however, told an entirely different story. Michael wondered if he still bore scars on his back from that vicious whipping. Lucian looked away as he spoke.

“We were slaves, once,” he said. “The daylight guardians of the vampires. I was born in servitude. Yet I harbored them no ill-will.” He smiled sadly, almost to himself, as if recalling younger, more naïve days. Looking directly at Michael now, he said, “Even took a vampire for my bride.”

 _Sonja_ , Michael thought.

“It was forbidden, of course,” Lucian went on. “Viktor feared a blending of the species. So much that he condemned her to death. His own daughter. Burnt alive… for loving me.”

 _Jesus_.

“The war started then,” Lucian said, his voice growing clipped and hard with anger. “This is Viktor’s war, and he’s spent the last six hundred years exterminating my species. But it ends tonight.”

“What about Selene?” Michael asked. “What’ll happen to her?”

Ominously, Lucian didn’t answer.

A voice from beyond the laboratory called out, “Lucian! We have company.”

Michael heard an irate male voice, raised in complaint.

“… caught by Khan and his men! Someone tipped them off. My men were all killed! Amelia’s still alive! All because of Selene and that werewolf Romeo of hers!”

“Calm yourself, Kraven…” The voices grew fainter as Lucian led away the newcomers.

Michael sagged back against the table. _I guess letting me off this thing wasn’t on the menu_. He pulled at the restraints in futility.

His nose twitched at a familiar scent: _vampire_. Not just any vampire, either. A second scent mingled with the first, and Michael’s eyes went wide. A moment later, the blonde female vampire slipped into the laboratory, Van Helsing on her heels.

Michael was so relieved to see the extraterrestrial alive, to have the burden of manslaughter taken off his shoulders, that he couldn’t speak. Van Helsing gestured for silence. He pulled a thin metal tube from one pocket and aimed it at the manacles that locked Michael’s hands to the table. The tip of the tube glowed blue, and the instrument whined like a mosquito. With a _clink_ , the cuffs popped open.

“What’re you doing?” Michael whispered.

“Getting you out of here. Selene sent us.” Van Helsing unbuckled the thick leather straps, and Michael hopped to the floor, shaking his limbs to get the circulation going.

“Come on,” Van Helsing said. “You’ll be safe with us.”

“What about Selene?”

“We’ll meet up with her later,” Van Helsing promised. “I think she can take care of herself.”

A loud explosion shook the concrete walls, followed by the sound of running footsteps and the hoarse yells of lycans. The blonde vampire cringed.

“That’ll be the Death Dealers,” she said. “Viktor and Amelia will probably both be coming with them.”

“And Selene?”

“Her, too,” said the blonde. “But if they find you, Michael, they’ll kill you. Kraven’s incensed that Selene went over his head to Viktor about you, and—”

“Whoever Kraven is, he’s here,” said Michael. “He and Lucian had some kind of deal that sounds like it fell through.”

“They were in league together to overthrow the vampire leadership,” Van Helsing provided. “You’re a pawn in all that, Michael—they won’t hesitate to kill you.” He tugged the American’s arm. “Now, let’s get moving.”

Gunfire rattled against concrete, mixed with angry shouts and cries of pain. The thought of Selene caught in the midst of all that chaos and bloodshed was more than Michael could bear.

“No!” he said, yanking away from Van Helsing. “I’m not leaving here without her!”

(vii)

To enter the tunnels, Selene’s party used the same metal grate she’d opened when chasing Trix two nights earlier. Now she wasn’t alone: Khan accompanied her, and eight other Death Dealers, all armed with AK-47 assault rifles. Selene had opted to stick with the more familiar Berettas. She’d left her coat in the Jag, wanting to be as unencumbered as possible.

She would of course follow Viktor’s orders to flush out and kill the lycans in the bunker, but she had her own agenda as well—to find Michael and see him to safety. If she was clever about it, Michael would appear to have slipped away during the fracas. Hopefully Lucian’s death would satisfy Viktor, and he’d give up on the notion of killing Michael.

And after that? Selene didn’t want to think that far ahead.

She welcomed the presence of the other Death Dealers around her. _If only I’d been able to bring them down here two nights ago_ , she lamented. _We’d have wiped out the werewolves, Michael would still be human, and Marcus would be awakened on schedule_. Now, thanks to Kraven, Selene’s entire world had gone to hell.

Viktor had also decreed that the traitorous regent be killed on sight. Selene hoped to have that pleasure herself.

The vampires strode through the tunnel, all senses on alert for danger. At last they reached the edge of an open concrete shaft, ladders reaching down into a foul-smelling pit. An old, empty elevator shaft. And scaling the ladders rapidly was a pair of lycans in human form.

Khan pulled the pin on a small grenade and tossed it casually down into the pit. He and the other Death Dealers drew back. Selene distinctly heard one of the lycans say, “Oh, shit!” the instant before the device detonated with a concussive blast. When she and Khan peered over the edge of the shaft again, both lycans lay dead at the bottom. Satisfied, the Death Dealers began to swiftly descend the ladders.

(viii)

When Michael heard Lucian’s voice arguing, his first instinct was to draw back. But realizing he might gain some valuable information, he hunkered down by the heavy closed door, his keen ears overhearing the conversation with no effort.

“I guess it never occurred to you that you might have to bleed a little to pull off this coup!” Lucian snarled. “Don’t even _think_ about leaving!”

Michael heard some footsteps, then his heart jolted when he heard gunfire: two, three, four shots. Then silence.

“Silver nitrate,” a second male voice said smugly. Michael recognized the voice from earlier: Kraven, the vampire Selene had warned him about. He heard footsteps approaching, and sprang aside, hiding behind a pile of crumbling concrete blocks. A tall vampire with shoulder-length black hair rushed past, gazing about wildly, as if searching for an escape route. Michael was grateful that the whole bunker smelled so pungently of werewolf that his own scent got lost in the mix. Kraven didn’t notice him.

When the vampire’s footsteps retreated, Michael dashed into Lucian’s conference room. To his vast dismay, the lycan leader lay sprawled on the floor. All over his skin, Michael could see the prominent lines of veins that had turned the sickly color of dull pewter. Silver poisoning? Michael couldn’t detect any visible wounds on the lycan’s head or torso, so he gently turned over the body. Here, he found four gaping entrance wounds in Lucian’s back.

 _That coward_ , Michael thought, outraged at what Kraven had done. _He didn’t even have the balls to face Lucian like a man!_ Quickly, he felt for vital signs, but the lycan’s heartbeat and breathing were still. Liquid silver oozed out of the holes in Lucian’s back; Michael took care not to touch it. His background in chemistry told him the substance was silver nitrate. _That arrogant fuck!_ Michael supposed he ought to be glad that Lucian’s death meant the end of his tenure as a lab rat, but still he grieved with unexpected intensity for the death of his wolfen sire.

He glanced around the inside of Lucian’s conference room. On one shelf lay a collection of weapons and clips of UV ammo. Michael hesitated before taking one of the guns. He’d never used firearms in his life, and this seemed like a bad time to learn. Still, the bunker soon would be crawling with vampires hell-bent on killing him, just as Kraven had killed Lucian. _What the fuck_. Michael helped himself to a second gun, hoping he wouldn’t need to use either weapon. Then he crept out of the room, wishing he knew his way around the subterranean rat warren a little better.

(ix)

The lycans were being massacred on their own territory, falling before the relentless assault of vampire weaponry. Khan led the advance party with ruthless efficiency honed over centuries of battling lycans. Some of their adversaries were in human form, armed with UV ammunition, others fully transformed werewolves. The Death Dealers kept up a steady barrage of silver firepower, picking off one lycan after another. Selene only wished Khan had had enough time to produce more silver nitrate bullets. He’d told her the single prototype weapon had vanished from the dojo, and Selene had a fairly good idea of who’d stolen it.

Behind them, the main force of Death Dealers entered the tunnels, spreading out through the labyrinth, cutting off the lycans’ escape routes. Selene listened to the sound of distant explosions. At every turn and junction, she looked around, hoping desperately for a sign of Michael. Maybe he’d been able to escape to the surface.

Or maybe he was already dead.

Khan’s party reached an intersection where two tunnels came together. Selene heard rough animal breathing, and from two corridors, massive lycans came roaring out: half a dozen on each side. The tunnels roared with gunfire. One of the beasts fell on Khan, and blood spattered everywhere. Selene screamed, “ _No!_ ” and pumped an entire clip of silver into the shaggy hide.

A second lycan was rushing straight at her. She turned to face it, but both Berettas were empty. She reached for a pair of throwing stars, knowing that those weapons were unlikely to stop the beast before it killed her. An instant before she expected to be torn to shreds, a blur of black materialized out of nowhere, slamming the lycan halfway across the tunnel. A slender arm lifted the 400-pound beast clear off its massive hind feet, a white hand crushing its throat. The lycan dropped to the concrete. _Blam!_ One bullet shattered its skull.

 _Amelia_. A second lycan rushed the female Elder, and in one instant—faster than the eye could follow—she drew a wicked silver sword. The creature’s own momentum propelled it onto the blade. Amelia finished the job by breaking the beast’s neck.

She turned to Selene, pale eyes glowing with unearthly fire. She’d swapped her regal gown for utilitarian Death Dealer’s garb. From beneath the folds of an elegant leather coat, she produced several clips of silver bullets.

“Thank you, my lady,” Selene murmured, hastily reloading her Berettas. She surveyed the damage: the lycans all lay dead, but they’d taken five Death Dealers to the grave, including Khan. Selene grieved wildly for her lost friend.

“I’ll lead this party from here.” Amelia had brought a dozen Death Dealers, her own personal guard. “Viktor is taking his men through another entrance. We’ll drive the lycan scum to the central bunker and finish them off.”

The Death Dealers nodded. “Yes, m’lady.”

Her expression softened by a fraction. “When it’s over, we can collect the bodies of our fallen comrades.”

Amelia gathered the warriors, and they swept down the corridor, weapons bristling. Selene brought up the rear, her nose and ears struggling to detect any lycan presence—not easy, given the explosions and gun smoke and clouds of mortar dust. The lycan scent abruptly intensified, and arms wrapped around her, a hand clamping over her mouth. But the scent was blessedly familiar: _Michael!_

(x)

He pulled her into a deserted niche, a corridor that terminated abruptly in a tangle of cinderblocks and rusted metal rods. Probably the corridor had been sawed off when the M2 subway tunnel had been dug: Selene faintly heard the rumble of a train. She was so glad to see Michael alive and unharmed that her legs were shaking. Without hesitation, he drew her against him, and they kissed with a desperate hunger.

“Thank God you’re okay!” he said when they parted. He brushed hair back from her face and added, “Selene, I know what started this war.”

“Shh, save the stories for later. I need to get you out of here and rejoin Amelia’s party before they miss me.”

“That woman—she moved so fast—was that Amelia?”

“One of the Elders,” Selene nodded. She mostly knew Amelia as a shrewd businesswoman who had brought the covens through the dizzying twentieth century, seizing on technological innovations to expand the vampires’ wealth. “She was a great warrior in the middle ages. That’s how strong the Elders are, Michael. She’d snap your neck without even blinking. So would Viktor—he’s here, too.” Selene listened to the sounds of battle, too close-by for her liking. “Have Erika and the Doctor turned up?”

“They’re the ones who found me… Lucian had me tied up in his lab.” Michael swallowed hard. “Lucian’s dead, Selene. Kraven shot him to death with some kind of weird silver nitrate bullets.”

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about. I’m sure Kraven must’ve escaped to the surface by now.” She sighed. “Why didn’t you go with the Doctor? I told him to find you and keep you out of trouble!”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Michael admitted.

His simple concern for her—and his willingness to risk his own life to protect her—touched Selene profoundly. It had been centuries since someone had really, truly cared about her like that. She kissed him again, then took his hand and said, “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

They crept along the corridor, following the path the Death Dealers had taken. From further ahead came the sounds of a pitched battle. Through an open doorway to the right, Selene spotted a flight of concrete steps leading up.

“This way,” she whispered. That was what they needed—up, toward the surface.

They hurried up, as far as the stairs would take them. Selene led Michael through an old generator room, hoping to find another flight of steps or a ladder. At the back of the room, she spotted a door of heavy, industrial steel. _This looks promising_. She pulled the door open.

To her horror, Kraven stood on the other side: from his expression, she knew he was lost, also looking for an escape route. He regarded Selene with anger, but when he saw Michael, that anger deepened into utter wrath. Before she could stop him, Kraven raised a large gun—Khan’s prototype—and fired off several rounds, the silver nitrate bullets taking Michael squarely in the chest.

(xi)

“ _No!_ ” Selene’s legs buckled, and she dropped down beside Michael, stunned and horrified. He gagged and convulsed as the silver coursed its way through his bloodstream, turning his veins the color of pewter. She felt a tearing pain inside herself, realizing she’d lost something precious almost before she’d had a chance to appreciate it. She glared hatefully up at Kraven. “You monster!”

He regarded Michael with revulsion. “Enough!” He grabbed her shoulder, trying to pull her away from the dying lycan. “You’re coming with me!”

Selene roughly shook him off. “Never! I only hope I live long enough to watch Viktor choke the life from you!”

The mention of the Elder seemed to spark some old resentment within Kraven. He leaned toward Selene, sneering slightly.

“I’ll bet you do. But let me tell you something about your precious dark father,” he said. “He’s the one who killed your family, not the lycans.”

Selene glared up at him, hissing in disbelief.

“He never could follow his own rules.” An evil smile twisted up Kraven’s face, and Selene wondered how long he’d yearned to tell her this, to shatter her devotion to Viktor. “Said he couldn’t abide the taste of livestock. So every once in a while, he went out and gorged himself on human blood. I cleaned up the messes for him… kept his secrets.”

Selene wanted to tear his mouth off his face, to stop the ugly flood of words. Part of her refused to believe this filth. Another part of her—the part that had witnessed the upheaval of the past forty-eight hours—knew that despite the cruelty of Kraven’s motives, he was telling the truth.

“It was he who crept from room to room, dispatching everyone close to your heart,” Kraven gloated. “But when he got to you, he just couldn’t bear the thought of draining you dry. You, who reminded him so much of his precious _Sonja_.” Kraven fairly spat out the name. “The daughter he condemned to death!”

_His own daughter? Viktor would never—_

“Lies!” she whispered.

“Believe what you want. Now, come.” Once again, Kraven tried to tug Selene to her feet. “Your place is at my side.”

 _At his side?_ He’d killed the man Selene loved and exposed the sordid truth of her family’s death, and he imagined she’d want anything to do with him? Angrily, Selene shook him off, refusing to budge from her vigil over Michael’s body.

“So be it.” Kraven withdrew a second gun, this one full of UV ammunition, and put it to Selene’s temple.

A bloody hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed Kraven’s ankle. It was Lucian, literally crawling on his hands and knees, his skin a grotesque map of pewter veins, like Michael’s. Selene’s mind dimly registered astonishment that the lycan’s body had resisted the poison long enough for him to come this far. His right arm snapped hard, and the spring-loaded blade shot out of his sleeve, plunging into the back of Kraven’s leg. The regent’s scream was music to Selene’s ears.

From the doorway opposite, a female voice thundered, “ _Kraven!_ ” The injured regent twisted and fell, Lucian’s blade snapping off, the gun in his hand fired wildly. The UV bullets sprayed up, missing Selene and peppering Amelia, who was already halfway across the generator room. She cried out and fell from midair to the concrete, the encapsulated sunlight burning her from the inside out, just as it had done to Rigel that fateful night in the metro station.

From the floor, Lucian choked, a horrible rasping laugh, at the Elder’s death. Kraven lay nearby, writhing and grunting in pain, trying to get the broken sword out of his leg.

For an instant, Lucian’s gaze locked onto Selene’s. “ _Bite him_ ,” he said, and she knew instinctively he meant Michael. She didn’t understand, then she recalled Singe’s words: _half vampire, half lycan, but stronger than both!_

In theory it should work, but Michael had been poisoned by silver. And nobody had ever survived the bite of both species.

“ _Bite him_ ,” Lucian repeated urgently.

But Michael was dying anyway. Selene realized she had nothing to lose.

She bent down to Michael’s neck and sank her ivory fangs into his skin. She could taste the silver nitrate, but even more ecstatically, she could taste _him_.

Voice shaking, Kraven demanded, “What the hell are you doing?”

Smiling, Lucian told him, “You may have killed me, _cousin_ , but my will is done regardless.”

Kraven struggled upright and vented his fury by finishing off Lucian with more silver nitrate. After six centuries, ironically, he’d finally done the deed for which he’d been so venerated.

Selene paid him no mind as Michael’s blood coursed down her throat. The sensation was so remarkable that she had to forcibly pull back, lest she drain him completely. She gazed down upon him, hoping that Lucian’s mad suggestion would work. Then, unbelievably, Michael’s body began to twitch and thrash in wild spasms.

Powerful hands grabbed Selene’s shoulders, throwing her like a puppet against an old generator. _Viktor!_ She glared up through a haze of pain as he regarded Michael’s rapidly transforming body with revulsion. Then he turned to the charred remains of Amelia’s corpse.

“No,” he whispered. Like Kraven, he vented his impotent rage elsewhere, lifting Michael and flinging him overhead with such force that the lycan exploded through the cinderblock wall in a cloud of broken concrete and choking mortar dust. Selene heard a tremendous splash, as if Michael had fallen from a great distance into a pool of water.

Viktor rounded on Selene. “Where is he? Where’s Kraven?” he thundered.

Selene stared at the spot where the regent had been: only Lucian’s broken sword remained. But at that moment, Kraven’s escape didn’t concern her.

“It wasn’t the lycans,” she whispered, turning her face to Viktor’s. “It was you!”

(xi)

Three Death Dealers had followed Viktor into the old generator room. He turned toward them now, snarling, “Leave us!”

Selene hauled herself to her feet, facing Viktor, full of an implacable hatred—all the stronger because of the love she’d had for him. Until today, she would gladly have died for her sire, and now she realized her devotion to him had been built on a foundation of lies.

“How could you?” she whispered. “How could you bear my trust, knowing you murdered my family?”

Viktor’s face softened into an almost tender expression, which in a way hurt even more than anything Kraven had done. Selene had disappointed Viktor, but he still loved her.

 _This wouldn’t be so unbearable_ , she thought, _if I hadn’t also loved him so much_.

“Yes, I have taken from you,” he acknowledged. “But I’ve given you so much more. Is it not a fair trade, the life I have granted you? The gift of immortality?”

 _Is that how you justified it?_ Selene wondered. “And the life of your daughter?” she challenged? “Your own flesh and blood?”

Viktor’s face grew hard again. He crouched down beside Lucian’s corpse and pulled off the lycan leader’s medallion. Selene felt the cold pain of another truth: that pendant had once belonged to Viktor’s daughter. It was too small, too delicate to belong to a man, and the design of Celtic knotwork was one of Viktor’s emblems, reflected in the design of the crypt at the mansion, in the detailing of his own robes—a design even used in the armor of the Death Dealers themselves.

 _Lucian and Sonja_ , Selene realized. _They were lovers, just like Michael and I. And Viktor murdered her for that_.

Michael now possessed Lucian’s memories, as a result of the bite, and Selene knew he must have seen the truth, also. _I know what started this war_ , he’d said. The war had been born in the furnace of Viktor’s wrath, his anger that his daughter had been sullied by a lycan.

“I loved my daughter,” Viktor declared. “But the abomination growing in her womb was a betrayal of me and the Covenant!” Growing more infuriated, he shouted, “I had no choice!” Selene shrank back, expecting at any moment for him to rip her to pieces. “I did what was necessary to protect the species! As I am forced to do—yet again!”

He drew his sword and advanced on Selene. But he froze—they both did—at the sound of a wild cry from the bunker room. For the first time in Selene’s immortal life, she saw fear on Viktor’s face.

 _Is that **Michael**? _ she wondered. The howl had been neither vampiric nor lycanthropic—something different altogether. Viktor’s head snapped, staring out the hole in the wall. Selene took advantage of the moment, leaping into a savage kick that sent Viktor’s sword flying from his hand into the bunker below.

He rounded on her furiously—only to be confronted by a creature the likes of which Selene could not have imagined.

It was Michael, transformed into a glorious, fearsome beast from some fantastic legend: not lycan, not vampire, but a creature carved of black obsidian, gleaming and rippling beneath the lights of the generator room. Not even the muck and plaster dust that covered him could diminish his magnificence. His eyes glowed ebony, fathomless. Lucian’s mad scheme had worked, and from Singe’s blind experiments had risen an entirely new species.

Michael snarled at Viktor, pure white fangs contrasting vividly with his black face. Then he lifted the Elder and flung him through the wall of the generator room into the fetid pool that lay below.

Then Michael was gone. Selene blinked, gasping: even the Elders couldn’t move so quickly! She ran and stared through the gaping hole in the concrete wall. The main room of the bunker had flooded—there must be an underground pipe leaking somewhere—and an epic, titanic battle unfolded in the filthy waters. Michael was fearsomely strong, flinging Viktor about as if the powerful Elder weighed nothing. And every time Viktor stood up or turned around, Michael would be right there, always moving too quickly for the eye to follow.

Michael may have had the benefit of greater strength, but it was a raw, uncoordinated power. Viktor had the advantage of combat experience—centuries’ worth. He delivered a couple of stunning punches and sent Michael flying across the bunker, where he landed with a mighty splash. Viktor had lost none of his ferocious authority, despite the water drenching his robes and his wildly disheveled yellow hair. Selene realized she was seeing him as he must have been during those legendary medieval battles.

Viktor’s Death Dealers, hearing the sounds of trouble, had come to the aid of their master, and now they stood on the edge of the pool, AK-47s in hand, firing a barrage of silver at Michael. Ugly flowers of blood blossomed as the bullets struck him, and he howled with pain.

 _No!_ Selene dropped from her perch, landing noiselessly behind the Death Dealers. She kicked the central man, knocking his legs out from under him, and in one swift wrench, broke his neck. She downed the other two with a combination of kicks and punches, grieving as she fought. _Forgive me, my brothers_ , she thought. _I never meant to kill my own kind_.

Viktor had leaped across the pool, and now he had Michael’s head in a vicious lock. Selene saw the insane, almost rabid expression on his face, saw Michael’s futile efforts to free himself.

“Time to die!” Viktor snarled, and Selene saw to her horror that he was going to break Michael’s neck. Her head turned wildly from side to side, and a metallic gleam caught her eye: Viktor’s abandoned sword.

She scrambled and grabbed the weapon. Viktor spotted her and released Michael, shoving the hybrid away and turning to face Selene. She sprang through the air like a cougar, the sword flashing. Viktor’s arms snapped, and spring-loaded daggers dropped into his hands. He glared at Selene with murder in his eyes. But he couldn’t move. A diagonal crimson line had begun to spread across his face. Selene held up the sword, showing him the wet blood on the blade. The line on Viktor’s face grew, and then, grotesquely, the entire upper part of his head slid clean off. His body followed, toppling into the quagmire.

Stunned, Selene could only stand there, staring at him. After centuries of killing, she finally felt that her family’s deaths had been avenged.

She waded slowly from the pool. In a pile of gray rubble nearby lay Sonja’s pendant; Viktor must have dropped it in the fight. She rubbed the dust from the medallion, thinking of what it represented: the forbidden love, the years of warfare, the lives wasted and lost, the tangled web of lies and deceit.

Splashing footsteps behind her announced that Michael was alive. She turned to face him. He’d returned to human form, his skin unblemished: his vampiric blood had protected him from the silver’s poison. Silently, Selene pressed the pendant into his hand: it was his now, as the keeper of Lucian’s memories.

For a moment, they stood staring around the bunker, absorbing the enormity of what had happened. The old order had been overthrown, the war ended, a new species born. Selene hadn’t just witnessed this, she’d helped to bring it about. In shadowy niches above the pool, werewolves growled, but at a single glance from Michael, the creatures withdrew.

Michael turned his gaze to Selene, eyes full of love. She marveled at that. _We’re still barely more than strangers_. And yet their love was already so strong, forged in the crucible of war. It didn’t matter that they knew almost nothing about each other. They had an eternity to learn.

(xii)

Kraven had limped his way to the surface, his leg an agonizing burden that he dragged behind him. He needed to get back to the mansion before Selene, to awaken Marcus and tell him how that bitch had betrayed the coven. Maybe if he was lucky, Selene and Viktor would kill each other, and there would be nobody left alive to tell Marcus otherwise. At least that damned Michael was dead.

The cars that the Death Dealers had driven to the city were parked in an alleyway, three drivers left to guard them. The warriors stood nearby, weapons ready, keeping close watch on the street. Kraven tightened his grip on the purloined UV weapon.

They saw him, but a fraction of a second too late; anyway, their weapons were loaded with silver. Kraven fired ruthlessly, emptying the clip, reducing all three guards to piles of smoking ash on the ground.

He hobbled across the road, rummaging shamelessly among the hot, crunching cinders for a set of car keys. His heart jolted at the sound of running footsteps. A female voice snarled his name.

“ _Kraven!_ ”

He looked up, then ducked as UV bullets flew wildly over his head. It was that bitch, that blonde slut who’d been in league with Selene, spying on him and Soren. Kraven grabbed the nearest weapon, a semiautomatic loaded with silver, firing at his would-be assassin. She cried out, flying back and landing on the asphalt, releasing her hold on the gun she’d wielded so inexpertly. The weapon clattered away across the pavement.

Kraven stalked over to her prone body. Silver couldn’t harm a vampire, of course, but the bullets would pierce her heart and brain, killing her just as efficiently. She was bleeding, writhing in pain, but she glared up at him with defiant eyes. He pointed the semi down at her skull.

Something materialized out of the shadows: a man in a long coat. He’d picked up the blonde’s gun, aiming it straight at Kraven. The vampire blinked: the man’s scent was strange, inhuman, his face a chillingly blank mask, eyes cold and remote. Unbidden, a peculiar phrase popped into Kraven’s mind—

( _the oncoming storm_ )

—out of seemingly nowhere. The gun exploded once, the bullet taking Kraven right in the heart. He dropped to the sidewalk, screaming in pain, as the ultraviolet fire seared through his body, burning him alive.

(xiii)

Erika watched the Doctor fling away the gun, his expression revolted, as if he couldn’t bear having the weapon even touch his skin. Then he dropped down beside her, examining her injuries.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you,” he said, voice shaking as he pulled off his long coat. Then he removed his jacket and folded it up under Erika’s head. “You brave, crazy woman!” he scolded. “Why’d you go after him like that?”

 _Revenge_ , Erika thought. “It hurts,” she sobbed.

“I know. But you’ll be all right, I promise.” He swiftly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, then began ripping the fabric into strips, which he used to bind the gaping wounds in Erika’s flesh. “At least the bullets were silver, not ultraviolet. I know they burn, but they’re not poisonous to you.” The greater danger, Erika knew, was blood loss: already she was dizzy and weak, tottering on the brink of unconsciousness.

“Don’t fall asleep!” he ordered, covering her with his coat. “Start talking!”

“About what?”

“Anything! Say the alphabet, tell me a poem, sing a song, but don’t let yourself lose consciousness!”

Erika couldn’t recall any poetry off-hand, and she feared that the rhythm of the alphabet would put her to sleep, so she began conjugating French verbs. The Doctor used his sonic device to open the trunks of the Death Dealers’ cars, looking frantically through the contents of each. Finally he pulled out an automotive tool box.

“No first aid kits,” he fumed, dropping down again beside Erika. He removed a pair of long, thin pliers and held them up, running his sonic device along the metal.

“What are you doing?” she rasped.

“Sterilizing it.”

“Vampires can’t catch human infections.”

“General principles,” he huffed. Then he said, “I’m going to put your mind into a bit of a trance so that I can get these bullets out without hurting you. You’ll still be awake; you’ll feel some pressure and maybe a bit of burning, but it shouldn’t hurt too badly. The thing you need to do is stay as relaxed as possible. All right?”

“All right,” she agreed.

He put his hands on either side of her head, and Erika closed her eyes. A moment later she felt his presence in her mind, and then, incredibly, the searing pain of the bullets began to lessen.

“All right?” he asked again.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I can barely feel anything.”

“Good.”

She tried to lay still and be calm when he removed one of the bandages and began probing into her flesh with the pliers, but it wasn’t easy. For one thing, she could hear the wet sounds as he worked, and she felt the uncomfortable pressure of the metal burning inside her.

“Gotcha,” he grunted, tossing one bullet onto the street. Then he bound the wound again. Erika waited while he went to work on the next one. She tried to be patient, but it seemed there was no end to her injuries, and she was growing nauseated as well as weak.

“We’re almost there,” he said, his long hands red from her blood. He wiped them on his t-shirt, leaving smears on the gray fabric. “There’s just one left, in your leg, but it’s deep.”

“Do it,” she said, glad the ordeal would be over soon. She told herself to be calm and brave, but the pliers dug deep into the muscle of her thigh, and suddenly there was a bright, horrible pain. Erika nearly screamed, thrashing in spasms.

“Shh, shh!” His hands pressed down on her leg. “It’s embedded in the bone. I’m sorry; I can’t dig it out, not with these. I need better instruments.”

Erika cringed at the sound of running footsteps, imagining more Death Dealers or worse, lycans. But then a familiar woman’s voice called out, “What happened?”

“Erika’s injured—there’s a bullet in her leg I can’t get out.”

Selene’s pale face loomed into Erika’s field of vision, then Michael’s. Through her haze of pain, Erika was glad to see both of them unharmed.

Michael took a quick, professional look at the injury. “Selene, is there anywhere we can take her? I could get this out, but I need some decent medical supplies.”

“My ship,” the Doctor said. “It’s in the tunnels, and—”

Selene vetoed that idea immediately. “There’s still too many lycans down there, and some Death Dealers may have survived as well. We’ll go to one of our safe houses. Quickly—get her into the back of my car.”

Michael took Erika by the shoulders, and the Doctor lifted her feet. They maneuvered her into the backseat of Selene’s Jag, tucking her in with the Doctor’s jacket for a pillow and his coat for a blanket.

She gazed blearily up at Michael. “Your smell has changed,” she murmured.

“Yeah, I know.” He climbed into the passenger seat in front. Selene had already started the engine. The Doctor stayed in the back, next to Erika, stroking her hand reassuringly.

“What happened down there?” he asked.

Selene pulled the car away from the curb. “Lucian is dead. Amelia’s dead.” Her voice grew heavy. “Viktor’s dead. I killed him.”

Mechanically, the Doctor told her, “Kraven’s dead, too.”

She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Your work?”

He didn’t answer.

“You lucky bastard,” she said. The car whispered along the streets, into the heart of the city. Overhead, the moon glowed coldly in the night sky.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> This story continues in "The Ground Beneath her Feet."


End file.
